I love pooing
Go ahead and mock me, young friends, but I assure you that as you advance in years, a fully realized and satisfactory bowel movement will most definitely move up you personal scale of daily tasks you will need to achieve to live a happy lifestyle. 2 BMs are obviously even more preferable, while 3 merit a self-rewarding weekend getaway jaunt to an exotic locale.
This particular spectacularly uncomfortable but ultimately resolved episode of constipation began on Wednesday morn at BHF when the bike I loaned Kevin VanEngen developed float bowl issues. As I was leery of loaning Kevin FrankenDuc for more than a session and risking him getting so excited that he either A)crashed or B)jidded alll over the seat/tank, I worked constantly on the bike between sessions until lunch, thereby missing my customary AM absolution. My condition was compounded by the extensive exertion expended trying to get FrankenDuc to go in the direction I was pointing it; we need to do a bit of chassis twiddling, but this is a different problem. Eventually, I buttoned things up and headed over to the stalls by 11:30 or so, but alas, my window of opportunity had long passed.
Strain as I might, delicately straddling the line between aneurism and anal destruction, the most I could muster was but a few pellets of material of roughly equivalent mass to that of matter from our sun. And, in the seemingly interminable 48 hours since, more of the same. I felt terrible flushing these superdense nuggets, partly because I expended so much effort in their production, but moreover because I am certain that they may have held some scientific importance. Whatever, I ask little of society, so I feel I owe little back.
This morning, though, as I sprung from the marital bunk, I sensed a tiny but very important alteration in the fabric of my colonic universe. Friday, sunny skies, warmth in the air, and the dawning indication that perhaps today would be The Day, a New Rebirth. As I lowered myself onto the hallowed throne, I was initially crestfallen as I strained yet again whilst pressing my eyeballs into their sockets for fear that they would shoot across the room and explode on the wall. Within minutes, however, the voices of Angels from on High joined the merry, oblivious songs of the birds outside my window, and I ectatically found myself perched upon a miraculous volcanic mountain arisen form the sea rivaling any found in the Pacific. Task completed, I ventured forth into the world with the excitement and enthusiasm of a newborn colt, friskily and optimistically embracing the experiences ahead.
But then! What was this? Could it be? It was! The rumblings of more intestinal activity, quickly realized as the urgent need for a crapper ASAP. No prelude this time, no courting dance of straining contortions and grotesque undulations, no sir. Just straightaway, no frills, cutthroat business, fully and even more satisfactorily performed to nearly psuedo-erotic levels of ectasy. Although, I barely had enough teepee at my disposal to close the deal. No matter, I again venture forth into the beautiful, crisp, clear spring day a purified and cleansed man to meet my fates, happily embracing all that comes my way. I hope that all of you experience an equivalently simple yet impossibly rewarding experience at least once, and hopefully many times in your travels, but as for me, I have triumphed, and cannot wiat to see what happens next.
Have a wonderful weekend; I am Golden. And for Heaven's Sake, if you feel the need to take a dump, please do so posthaste. Do it for all the unfortunate and needy who have no modern plumbing, do it for those who must endure the shame and inconvenince of clostamy bags, do it for the poor sap who's third in line for the economy bathroom on a trans-Atlantic flight, but most of all, do it for me, your humble but elated friend, co-enthusiast, mentor, student, and servant. Godspeed!
There will always be a better ride out there. It's not the bike that bends, it's the rider. There is no spoon.
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