Wednesday, January 06, 2010

There Are Metal Spikes If You Try To Go In The Wrong Way

You know what's weird?

Sometimes my butt hole knows me better than I do. It's like my butt hole has taken a sworn oath to devote its life to protecting my best interests and preserving my dignity at all costs, come hell or high water.

People can leave whenever they want, but nobody gets in without the proper documentation. My butt hole is like a border patrol agent.

For example, it has been known to happen, on occasion, that I need to fart and so when the opportunity presents itself for me to drop a Stealth Bomb, I prepare for launch.

Except sometimes my butt hole is like, "WHOA THERE. Let's not be so hasty. There's a person of interest headed for the border as we speak, and we need to set up this road block to make sure that he doesn't escape into your underwear. And just to be safe, why don't you go ahead and position yourself for Evacuation. Signal when you're ready."

And I'm like, "Holy shit, butt hole. I didn't even know he was on the run! Thank you for saving the day!"

And then my butt hole is like, "Just doing our job, Ma'am," and voila! My dignity has been spared!

And then I come here and my typing fingers fuck it all up, but still. I appreciate the effort. Butt holes can't be everywhere at once.