the good american

Saturday, November 24, 2007

the good american Current mood: contemplative "Those of you who know me, even in the slightest, may perchance have noticed my appreciation of the smaller things in life. For instance, I love to laugh. I also love releasing a hearty poop at least once a day. Since I've been blessed with constant activity on both these fronts, I arrogantly mix the two fortunes of my nature together – I laugh at poop. I'm really not all that particular on the specifics. I giggle at the mention of the word, chuckle in response to a vulgar reference, etc. Yes, I am immature. It's really not that much of a problem. You laugh at the antics of Raymond Romano, I'll laugh at bowel movements. Potato, potaato. Anypoo (teehee)… Like mentioned above, I think this amusement stems from the fact that I take my regularity for granted. You know, like when rich people laugh at poor people. It's easy to laugh at poop when it's in abundance. Well, let me tell you, dear friends of mine, this world - in which we are all puppets - is a cruel place. It is full of mockery and condemnation. Don't get me wrong. I enjoy irony as much as the next yahoo over… you know, when it happens to other people. but this! THIS recent dealing of the cards was just plain maliciousness. "is this your idea of joke!" i cursed while shaking clenched fists at the heavens. But, alas, my efforts were in vain. There was no amount of fist shaking that would loosen my bowels of shame…" I wrote the above passage while abroad. I was going to post it but, due to my fragile state, I was in no mood for jokes. Yes – I, who unabashedly enjoys humor of the fecal persuasion, was cursed with a dearth of dumpage, commonly referred to as No-Poop Syndrome. It all began as soon as I touched ground on the continent of Asia. "Perhaps it was all that airplane food," I pondered. Note exhibit A below. Exhibit A but then, I recalled experiencing this same rumbling sensation once before. It was four years ago when, after a 15 hour flight, I touched ground on foreign soil. And, in mounting terror, I remembered that I had No-Poop Syndrome (NPS) for the duration of that entire trip. It was such an fruitless experience that I had totally blocked it out of my memory. You know, like when people get abused as children and then block it out only to remember it in bits and pieces after years of psychoanalysis and shock therapy. "no," I whimpered, "not again." But yes, again! To cut a short story even shorter. My suffering ended the moment I walked into my home in los angeles. A bell went off and, just like that (snap!), the nightmare was over. I've given thought to this phenomena and it just doesn't make sense. My diet didn't change. Sure, I ate a lot of hummus and cheese, but I do that at home too, constantly. I also got some shawarma in, which is usually a sure fire way to get something going (like cigarettes). no dice. Note exhibit B below. Exhibit B Shawarma at its finest. "Eat a Pita" on Fairfax came close, but it mysteriously closed down one day. I drive by it when ever I'm in the area and sigh. Woe is me. Exhibit C as a side note, did you know that Israel is the only place where Mcdonalds also offers a McFalafel sandwich? Note exhibit D. no, i didn't eat one, if that's what you're thinking was the cause my misfortune. (although, what a novelty, eh?) Exhibit D Some people have told me that NPS is a mental problem, but I have my doubts. I can assure you that the most ascetic of monks couldn't have concentrated harder than I at beating this thing into the ground. No, the only conclusion that makes sense is that my excretion system knows when its on its home turf and, likewise, when it is on foreign ground. My butt was born an American, and, by golly, it will stay an American. I suppose it just refused to remain in business knowing that all its profits would just get cycled into the foreign sewage exchange. That's just how hardcore it is. I purchased a small American flag for the little fella, so that it may wave the red, white, and blue with pride. America, home of the Poop.