The Bouquet Is A Metaphor For Gray's Balls

So.

Gray was the best man in a wedding this weekend, and I was the self-appointed Task Mistress. I know that sounds totally dirty, but all it really meant was that I forced the bride and groom to CARE about timeliness and preparation. I know, it's like I was born to be the life of the party.

I mean really: what fun are weddings without schedules and forethought and...schedules?! No fun, that's how fun.

So, as self-appointed Task Mistress, my duty was to annoy everyone. It was like a dream come true for me. In fact, I'm gonna go ahead and take all of the credit for the blessed union. Without me, the lovely couple might never had made it to the altar. Scratch that, I bet they never would have MET had it not been for my future involvement in the placement of their tea lights at the reception. God works in mysterious ways, so if if He didn't already know I would be there this weekend to provide oil blotting papers for the bride, I bet neither of them would even have been born. God would have been like, "Meh...why even bother?"

So you're welcome, Bride and Groom, for giving you the gift of life.

Something unexpected happened at the reception Saturday night: I caught the bouquet. I know, right? Amazing that I didn't poke my own eye out in the process, although believe you me I would have poked grandma in the eye if I'd had to. I spent quite a bit of time in preparation for this feat, sizing up my opponents and contemplating strategy. (There was this one big chick I figured I'd need strategy to outmaneuver, but it turned out she was married to the black guy.) That bundle of roses was MINE, bitches!

Except when it came time for the bouquet toss, I realized that I was LITERALLY the only single woman at the wedding. There I was, standing in the middle of a gigantic ring of married, judging eyes, all of them taunting my singularity like the crowds in the Colosseum must have tormented the lion's next snack.

I could feel their pity. Poor single girl, those eyes said. Must be the nose. (no, really - actually had a convo that night about my nose and was told that yes, perhaps I SHOULD consider rhinoplasty. looks are important)((let that be a warning that if you fish for compliments, you might catch a burn instead)). I wanted to shout that I hadn't always been single. I'd been one of them once. But there was no time for explanations.

My head swam as I dove for those silk flowers like my life depended upon it. When I felt the bouquet him my hands, I raised them above my head in victory, flaunting my prize to the cheering crowd.

And then I did the most important thing: I gave Gray the look and said, "You know what this means, right?", to which he replied, "That I'm moving to Canada?"

Little did he know that it was his turn to catch the garter. At least he wasn't alone out there: another single guy battled him for the prize, but he'd been married twice already so I don't think he was trying very hard.

Gray was victorious. And also he's totally fucked.

There's just no fighting that kind of fate.

Don't Worry, They Were Strippers, Not Hookers. Probably.

So we got into a bit of trouble with some of our new neighbors (us being the "new" ones).

Turns out? We're loud as fuck.

I know, I was surprised too.

Gray hosted a bachelor party for his buddy at our house last Friday (yes, it totally involved strippers and blow job solicitations and dollar bills and oh so very much booze)((it was a true-blue bachelor party)), and the boys were up until almost 6:00 a.m. I was trying to sleep through the commotion (whoever had the brilliant idea of playing Guitar Hero at 3:00 directly below my bedroom, I thank you from the bottom of my heart)((oh, and whoever was singing along? don't quit your day job and for the love of god, get your dog a pair of earplugs)).

They had a great time and didn't get arrested or catch any venereal diseases or accidentally sleep with each other or any of things that occasionally happen to make a guys' night out end badly.

They did, however, sit outside on the deck almost all night long because they smoke, which is verboten in our house, and so there they sat, smoking and giving each other noogies and saying "fuck this, fuck that" until an ungodly hour of the morning.

Our neighbors directly behind were displeased.

So we tromped around the block on Sunday, homemade goodies in hand, to apologize for disturbing their slumber. We felt very much like naughty little children, and I don't mean that in the way that pedophiles mean it.

Since that humiliating experience (yes, I cried, but not until after we left) I've been thinking what we could have done differently to avoid this awkward social situation, and I came to a brilliant conclusion: We have to deafen our neighbors.

Think about it for a second. Imagine if everyone living directly around your home were deaf. Just picture, if you will, the liberation such an arrangement would provide you. FARTING! FIGHTING! FUCKING! Everything could be as loud as you wanted. You'd never worry about "keeping it down" or shushing your guests or offending the children with graphic limericks or adult subject matter.

THEY WOULD ALL BE DEAF. You could call your next door neighbor a "moron" five feet from his face and he'd never know (disclaimer: deaf people read lips, so always be sure to hide your face. it's a qualified liberation, now that I think about it. just walk fucking backwards, you big babies).

I think I could do the job with an ice pick. Or is that too big? I've never actually seen one. Or I could pull some ninja shit and reach up to plug their noses just as they're sneezing. I'd have to aim for allergy season with that plan. I could just detonate an explosive right by their faces. Or discharge a gun inside an aluminum garbage can that they're crammed into.

The biggest challenge I foresee with this clearly unstoppable scheme is that we'd have to drive really slowly around the neighborhood. According to those big yellow signs, deaf people have a tendency to run right out in front of cars, although I never understood why fucking BLIND people can get across a busy street no problem, but deaf people can't seem to remember to look both ways. Who the hell judges traffic by SOUND, for christ's sake.

I know, the whole plan sounds tricky, but the only alternative I came up with was for US to be deaf because you never really hear deaf people talk, so theoretically we'd be much less obnoxious to the world in general, but I don't think that would actually solve the problem because deaf people seem to make a lot of strange noises when they sign, noises which resemble what I do on the toilet, so we'd probably be in trouble with the neighbors for "pooping loudly" when really we were just discussing the economy.

I'm glad we talked about this, you people really helped me realize that it makes the most sense to just stab everyone in the ears.

"I Can't Turn It Off, This Is Who I AM"

Go ahead and watch this clip of Modern Family, starting at the 15 minute mark.

Or, you know, from the beginning if you have the time because the whole thing is pretty funny, but right around minute 18, I was laughing so hard that I almost rolled off the damn couch.

"Isn't she going to have trouble pronouncing that?" Oh my god, that totally slayed me.

(ABC, please mail your check to Zipbag Of Bones.)((That's tax-free, right?))

Now He's Getting a Wedgie For Christmas

Ok, so does everyone remember this warning from Admiral Five Head?

Clearly, this is Top Secret information which is vital to The Universe and it's defenders from evil, lest the demonic email forces break free from a chain letter and infect all the human babies and turn them all into soul-leaching Romulans.

Naturally, I replied to his solemn warning in my typical smart-ass manner, I said, "Chain letters aren't demonic, they're just Klingon."

Funny, right? I mean, I figured he'd get the joke, seeing as he's currently occupied in the Star Fleet Command for the United Federation of Planets, and everything, and I also thought I had probably annoyed him enough that he wouldn't bring the topic up again, which wasn't actually my intention but seems to happen quite a lot, now that I think about it.

But I don't think he got it, because he responded with, " ** **** ***** (no they might)", presumably "they" meaning the emails and "might" meaning "withhold demonic forces" (by which I think he meant "contain", but whatever, he's 10).

I'm not really sure what all the asterisks were for, so I decided they are demon voices and they've infected Five Head with their socialist mind rays and he's already part Romulan, it's just hard to tell because he already has such a thick southern accent, and now I'm going to have to call the Captain of the U.S.S. Bold and warn him of this security breach, except OH NO, the Captain has been compromised!!!

So anyway, it's all one really big, fun game until Five Head gets hurt:

cat you might be right . sorry for lieing. can you help me? if you will please look these things up on the website you showed me that tells weather it is junk or not?

End Transmission from
Five Head
Capt. of U.S.S.Bold
Current Occupation
Star Fleet Command/
United Federation of Planets
Rank:Admiral
Home: 1-000-000-0000
Note:ONLY 3 calls a
week for ensigns

That sound you hear? IS MY HEART SNAPPING VIOLENTLY IN HALF.

I cannot express with words the feeling that exploded through my brain when I realized that, apparently, he thought I was accusing him of LYING, for fuck's sake. This whole "demonic forces" thing must be a lot more serious than I realized. This in not just a big joke, oh no no, I am messing with SOULS here, people.

Me: Buddy! You weren't lying, you were just trying to help people! The best website to check is called www.snopes.com - they have most of the internet and email rumors that circulate, and they research them to find out if they are true.

Him: thanks cat. so, could you find them?

Uuuuuhhhhhhh ok, now I'm starting to realize that he doesn't so much feel guilty about lying as he is trying to con me into fact-checking for him. I am such a fool! I allowed my emotions to blind me to the evil, Romulan internet voodoo! And yet, I'm still powerless to resist his demands.

Me: Find what, which ones do you want to look up?

Him: nevermind, ill do it. thanks for the site i might want to use it in the future (insert wierd space music here).

My little brother actually PUNNED, people. I am so proud.

(At least I think that was a pun. I'm never quite sure which is a pun and which is an adverb.)

Regardless, my work here is done. The galaxy is once again safe from the enemies of Earth. And also, now that I have imparted my knowledge about fact-checking, I need to teach Five Head some punctuation.

There's A Line At The DMV (Gray Must Be Sleeping With the Mailman)

So I was chatting with a friend last night (who shall remain nameless to protect her reputation as someone who doesn't chat with someone like me), and she introduced me to a new word: "Catastrophize".

"Dude," I thought to myself, "I should have that word tattooed on my fucking face, that's exactly how much I can relate to the concept of 'catastrophizing'."

For example, here's me, circa 2 months ago:

• Situation: "Check Engine" light just appeared on the dash in my car
• Reality: My car needs a new $3 vacuum hose
• Response: Instead of taking my car to the shop and getting answers right away, I proceed imagine all of the various thingy-majigs which may be malfunctioning on my vehicle and all of the associated, wallet-raping expenses which accompany such vehicular malfunctions, which rapidly transforms me into Captain Emo Chick, and my bangs suddenly hang sideways over my face I write a song, which goes like this:

FUCKITY FUCK. This car is toast, I'm going to have to buy a new car now and I can't afford it and oh my god can I even qualify for a loan?! I should try to fix it first, but THIS WILL RUIN ME FINANCIALLY, I just know it. This damn check engine light is the first step down the road to BAG LADY and HOMELESSNESS and INABILITY TO FLOSS MY TEETH UNLESS I RESORT TO FLOSSING WITH MY OWN HAIR (which will probably fall out because of the lice I'll inevitably contract when I'm living in a sewer with a bum named Rascal). There is no other possibility. I cannot take the pressure!! MUST VIOLENTLY OVERREACT IMMEDIATELY. This dash light marks the end of my life as I know it. ::enter sobbing / moaning / gnashing of teeth / over consumption of wine::

That (possibly?) is what we might consider "catastrophizing" a tiny little bit. That's the kind of reaction I generally had to car trouble (see above), lost paperwork (Jesus hates me and the rapture is coming ANY MOMENT, I just know it), spilled food (I'm pretty sure I've got anal cancer), clothing damaged during laundering (I'm barren), etc. You get idea.

Apparently, I'm not the only chick who does this. I googled "catastrophize" and 54,000 links popped up. Makes me feel both a little better and a little terrified of the rest of you crazy chicks out there. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with all of us?

Ok, so the point of telling you this is because I think that I mentioned that I'm seeing a shrink named Dr. Crazy Socks, and that I'm taking generic Celexa, and that things have been going pretty well so far. Which continues to be true. In fact, it is SO true that I can tell you exactly how I reacted to a similar vehicular situation just last month (this was AFTER the meds kicked in).

Me, circa 4 weeks ago and on meds:

• Situation: "Check Engine" light just appeared on the dash in my car
• Reality: My car needs almost $2,000 dollars of work in the form of a water pump and other highly critical thingy-majigs like tires that won't kill me
• Response: "Huh. Guess I'd better get that taken care of. Here, Mr. Tires Plus man: Here's $1,000. Please do whatever it is that you need to do to fix my car."...."What's that you say? You took my $1,000 and didn't fix my car? Oh well, that's ok. I'll just go somewhere else instead and pay them to do the same job. No worries. You're probably just tired from all the pretend work you did on my car."..."Hey, Friend Who Actually Fixed My Car, thank you for not walled-raping me and for actually fixing my car. Here's another $lots of dollars, and have a nice day."..."Huh, my check engine light is on again no less than one week after my car was fixed the second time. Guess I'd better get that taken care of since I'm leaving to drive to Wisconsin tomorrow." ::enter calmness / good humor / reasonable reactions/ holy shit, am I stoned or something?::

The point is, ya'll, it was really fucking weird. I'm kind of like this really chipper pod-person who says shit like, "My day was FANTASTIC!" and "It will all work out just fine!" and "Gosh, I never really noticed before how much I love to study and write papers, it's just THE BEST!"

So the moral of this story is that my catastrophizing was really great for the wine producers of the world, and I'm sorry, Franzia, Inc., but you may have to do a round of layoffs or switch to styrofoam boxes of wine or something, but medication is much easier on my vocal chords.

Kanye West Issues Apology After Interrupting Barbara Walters On The Toilet

AP - 1 hour ago

Hollywood, CA - Taylor Swift isn't the only young lady that rapper, Kanye West, embarrassed this week.

According to a police report filed Wednesday, West was scheduled to appear on the Wednesday episode of The View. While he was waiting backstage, West was overheard as saying, "Yo, I done drank too many crystal goblets of strawberry Kool-Aid and gotsta to piss like a motha."

He then used a pistol to shoot open the lock on Barbara Walter's dressing room before entering her private bathroom, knocking her to the floor, and proceeding to "urinate all over the seat", according to witnesses.

Walters suffered minor injuries as a result of the incident but was not taken to the hospital, and with the help of her crew members, she was able to locate her dentures behind the toilet tank and insert them before the show began.

"I hab neber been so insuwted in aww my wife," said an angry Walters to her audience. She said that she wanted her side of the story to be told, so it was important to "get the word owt dere befowe the stowy hits the tabwoids".

"Barbara looked fantastic," said Vanessa Jean King (Long Island) who was in the audience. "I would never have guessed she'd just been assaulted and peed on. Her hair was perfect, and her suit jacket was only a little wet. I couldn't even smell her from my seat."


West, who later apologized for his actions, was taken into custody on charges of assault with a deadly weapon and reckless bladder relieving.

In an unprecedented strategic move, President Barack Obama posted Wests' $5,000 bail. White House spokesperson Robert Gibbs later clarified the President's involvement in the incident. "Mr. Obama's goal is to reach the young people of this country with his message of reform. Kanye West agreed to write and produce an album for the President which will involve a series of customized political rap beats, spoken jazz, and techno brain washing pulses.

Plus, Mr. Obama owed West a 'solid' after calling him a 'jackass' last weekend."

In a statement issued by West's PR firm, the rapper says, "YO PATRICK SWAYZE I KNOW YOU JUST DIED AND ALL ... BUT MICHAEL JACKSON'S DEATH WAS THE BEST ONE THIS YEAR."

The Trouble With Technology...

This is a highly classified transcript of the email transmission I received from Admiral Five Head at 1700 hours on Saturday night:

if you recieve an e-mail about a poem that if you do not emailit to 5 others you will have bad luck DELETE IT!! there is no such thindg as luck. also there may be a virus i do not think so but it is possible. also, if these storys are true demonic forces ma be withheld in the e-mail.

End Transmission from
Five Head
Capt. of U.S.S.Bold
Current Occupation
Star Fleet Command/
United Federation of Planets
Rank:Admiral
Home:1-000-000-0000
Note:ONLY 3 calls a
week for ensigns

Apparently, Jesus hates SPAM, too.

Oh, and Mom? I think you need to send this kid to MORE church.

Because clearly he hasn't been brainwashed enough yet.

Fun With Feathers Winner

Congratulations to Lacey of Don't Make Drugs (aka The Tortured Optimist) for winning the Fun With Feathers giveaway!

I'm sending Lacey a copy of Rosie Red Bottom for her reading pleasure. I'm considering enclosing in the package a zip bag full of my hairs (in case I ever go missing and they need my DNA to identify my charred, toothless remains)((seriously, if there was ever a reason to get breast implants, corpse identification is it!)), and possibly some other little body parts...er...I mean trinkets.

Thanks to everyone who entered the giveaway. Losers.

In remembrance of the date today, I'm not going to post anything else because everything that could be said about 9/11 has already been said, and the best I can do is leave the Internet alone for a while.

You're welcome.

9/9/9 Is Really Just An Upside Down 666

I stole the Wordless Wednesday from Casey of HAGAY. I'd like to know what she plans to do about it.

Concern Over Comrade Obama's Speech Mounts

AP - 1 hour ago

Washington D.C. - As President Barack Obama Prepared to tape his back-to-school speech for America's school children, members of his cabinet began noticing marked changes in the President's demeanor.

Says Florida's GOP party Chairman Jim Greer, "The President started talking like Boris Godunov. I'm not even joking, his accent morphed into a combination of Russian and Muslim. TERRORIST Muslim. Clearly, he intends to begin indoctinating our nation's children into his left-wing teachings and underhanded socialist values. I am urging parents to protect their children from this attack by the President. Keep your kids home from school. Do not let them watch the President's address. Fashion double-layer tin foil hats for their tiny heads. It's the only way to keep the socialism out."

Other sources inside the White House confirm that Obama has begun insisting that everyone call him "Comrade Obama" and has also ordered the kitchen staff to undergo hours of grueling goose stepping drills on the White House lawn.

Roy Patterson has three children in the D.C. public schools: "Yeah, I read a copy of the President's speech on the Internet, and I am OUTRAGED by his blatant use of the words "talent" and "responsibility". Nobody tells my kid he's smart, you got that? NOBODY."

Other critics of Obama's speech call him a "political pedophile", insisting that he's "going after the young ones" because they cannot protect themselves against his "socialist mind rays".

Despite all the controversy, Obama insists his speech is about telling kids to stay in school and study hard. "No matter what you want to do with your life – I guarantee that you'll need an education to do it," the President says.

"Plus, this way I can brainwash them all at once with my hypnotic eye swirls."

The address is scheduled to air at noon eastern time on the White House website and on the C-SPAN cable network.

Live Long and Prosper and Do Your Homework

This is a highly classified transcript of the email transmission I received from Admiral Five Head at 1900 hours on Thursday night:

warning if yo get an email about an old lady in a pet shop DELETE IT IMMEDIAELY!!this may contain a virus so delete it if sent to you.*

End Transmission from
Five Head**
Capt. of U.S.S.Bold
Current Occupation
Star Fleet Command/
United Federation of Planets
Rank:Admiral
Home:1-000-000-0000***
Note:ONLY 3 calls a
week for ensigns


I have no idea why anyone would try to sell an old lady in a pet shop. Everyone knows old lady should be killed and stuffed in the freezer so that their social security checks can be stolen. But in any case, I thought I should do my duty and alert the galaxy to this pressing danger. You're welcome.

*Yes, nerdiness runs in the family.

**He signed his full name here, including the middle one, but you people are sick and I'm not going to tell you my 10-year-old brother's name, except really it's so he doesn't one day disown me for public humiliation. He lives in Arkansas, for christ's sake, I'd say he's already peaked out on the "at risk for stranger danger" bar graph.

***I changed the phone number too, mostly so the Admiral isn't grounded for exceeding his phone call quota.

Did They Run From Their Own Mortality or Was It the Skidmark?

So with the publishing of my last post, I've unwittingly shoved two of my legion right over the edge of the Interweb into the dreaded vortex known as Pushing The Unfollow Button, an action which I'm told leads to herpes and cankles, so TAKE THAT you two. Once I've alienated the rest of you, my work here will be complete.

I wanted to remind all of you brave (morally corrupt) remaining (people who skip over me in their Reader) souls (pretend you're not dead inside) that you still have one day to enter my giveaway. And it's not even a used vibrator I'm giving away this time. It's an autographed, first edition copy of my aunt's book Rosie Red Bottom.

So, yeah. I started classes again last week, and I've been trying to think of the best way to describe my thoughts about this new semester so far, which is kind of hard because how do you begin to convey the effect that Sonnet 19 has upon your understanding of the definition of human sexuality?

Or your interpretation of the oral traditions of the pre-literate, pagan Germanic raiding tribes in which women were passed around like some kind of peace pipe?

Or your astonishment to learn that there are only four Anglo-Saxon manuscripts upon which we've base our entire English literary tradition for the last 1,000 years and how one of them almost burned in a fire in the 18th century and therefore would have been lost forever?

YOU DON'T begin to explain those things, mostly because nobody gives a fuck, you giant nerd. So let me put it to you this way:

My Shakespeare professor said "gay porn" on our first night of class*. THAT'S how awesome my classes are this semester.**

*What he actually said was "Cape Horn", but it took me about 20 beats to realize he wasn't comparing 16th century Atlantic seafarer's contributions to the emerging literary climate during the Renaissance...to Chicks with Dicks. Seriously, say it aloud to yourself. You'll understand my confusion.

**In other words, it's the first time I've ever truly been excited about what I am learning. It's THAT good.

The Trouble With Trusting A Fart...

Before we get started, let me remind you that there is still time to enter my blogiversary giveaway!

I debated long and hard about whether to share this story with you all because...well...it's pretty fucked up and due the nature of this revelation, many of you will have a hard time looking me square in the eyes from this moment forward. I must admit, that's no great loss to anyone, but it will make me uncomfortable because then you'll be forced to focus directly on my schnoz, and that like doesn't happen enough already, asshole.

On the other hand, I am sure many of you will high-five me and declare, "This brave, self-less woman had the courage to crawl into the stinking depths of my inner being, grasp the sinewy tail of my darkest demon, and to wrench it free of my soul and out into the light of the day where it will melt and scream in agony! You, Cat, are my fucking hero!"

Or maybe not.

I even went to Facebook for help: Cat "wonders if there's REALLY such a thing as "too much information". I think people want to know, you know? Do they? I do. TELL ME."

To which everyone responded, "Yes there is such as thing as TMI, but we still want to know anyway." So basically yes. But no.

In the end, I opted out of sharing the story. It is the only way to retain the solitary shreds of my self-respect and dignity. This revelation is better left untold, a secret among many, hidden from the prying, judging eyes of the Interweb.

And then I remembered this post, wherein the last of my dignity up and bailed on me back in December. So now I figure, what the hell? Why not. It might make someone incredibly uncomfortable, and I've been known to go to great lengths to cause discomfort.

So here you go. You're welcome and I'm sorry.

I remember this time, it must have been in 9th grade, when my best friend Sara came from Virginia to stay with me for a week during summer break. We were too young to drive, and thus spent most of our days slathered in facial masks, painting our toe nails, calling Josh Wright on the telephone, and video recording every single second of our time together. And no, it was not the sexy kind of video, perverts.

We arranged to be dropped off at the movie theater to see some flick and meet some boy, and therefore had to stand outside and wait for my mom to come and pick us up after the movie was over. Of course, Sara and I did our best to "lean sexily" against the side of the building, and "appear to be older than we were", because of the things that matter, those are the two which matter most to ninth grade girls at the movie theater.

As we stood there in the hot night air, leaning our little hearts out against the brick wall of the building, we noticed two elderly couples exit the theater doors together and make their way down the sidewalk towards us. It was obvious that the couples were together, on some kind of a double-date, and all four of them were laughing: hysterical, belly-style laughter. Santa Clause laughter.

We were never able to glean the source of their mirth, be it the movie they just saw or some other instance of hilarity. They shuffled slowly along, whooping and hollering and crying and occasionally leaning against the wall to catch their breath, which is what I presumed one of the old ladies was doing when she stopped and braced herself against the wall.

Except that instead of catching her breath, she spread her legs and peed.

PEED!

She just let her bladder go right there on the sidewalk in front of god and fucking everyone. Which caused the troop of gay old friends to laugh EVEN HARDER.

Needless to say, my friend and I were beyond horrified at this spectacle, unable in our youth to imagine a time when our own bladder might fail us or a situation which might call for such extreme public humiliation. Perhaps even worse was the response of the old woman's date, who simply gripped her arm when she had finished watering the cement and steered her on down the sidewalk, all of them still laughing and bellowing to beat the damn band.

We stared after them, jaws unhinged and resting on our shoes, watching as they reached the car and the woman spread her legs once again and finished off her business right then and there behind the car door. It seemed to me that there were gallons - neigh, OCEANS! - of piss coursing out of that old woman. It was a sight to behold.

Then she gathered up her skirt, got into the backseat of the car, and they drove away.

I didn't sleep for a fucking week, let me tell you. There is nothing so terrifying to a teenager as the thought of growing old and losing control of your body. It simply cannot be, this "aging" thing you speak of. Look at me! I'm perky and elastic-y and simply fucking glowing with the light of a thousand unicorns! I will never be that old. Right? RIGHT!!??

And so now you might understand why, when recently I made a stop in the restroom to pee, I had a stroke and died on the toilet when I...saw.the.SKID MARK.

I literally floated up out of my body and looked down upon my soiled garments and thought, "Whose ass is that? Surely that is another person's ass. For my ass would never behave in such a manner. I demand to know whose ass I am wiping!"

And when finally I accepted that it was, in fact, MY ass, the memory of that old lady and her oceans of piss flashed before my eyes and I realized, maybe for the very first time, that I will one day clutch my belly as uncontrollable laughter causes me to shit myself in the movie theatre while on a date with a prostate cancer survivor in a toupee, and probably with a prescription for Viagra that he often confuses with his styptic tablets.

After this realization, I sent my grandmother a package of diapers and a sympathy card.*

*Actually, the first thing I did was text Gray because he was having a really bad day. And suddenly he realized that his day wasn't so bad anymore because at least he had clean boxers. And then I told Veronica, whose response was, "Are you actually TELLING ME THIS?"