Lately, my rectum-fruit have become black, like sidewalk tar in summer, which is a development I’ve attributed largely to the recent up-tick in my morning input of horse-grade oatmeal. People, we’re talking 5 to 7 mini-loads a day; high pressure extrusion process.
Truly immense quantities of nylon reinforced, industrial strength toilet paper and Comet® are now required to scour my balloon knot. And, from time to time, I’ve felt the urge to simply be done with it all and use the hand-held shower sprayer to administer the mother of all enemas. First, I’ll need to check my insurance.
On the plus side, my thoracic blood pump feels heart-smarter than ever and I can whistle “Yankee Doodle” using nothing but a fully loaded bladder and my prostate, which has become oddly prehensile in recent days. Mrs. Bissage now calls me fife dick.
All I need is an old guy and a young guy to play drums and I can take my show on the road. I already have a sucking head wound.
P.S. That guy in the lower right-hand corner wants to know if we take requests. The answer to that would be “Nope, not even for James Cagney.”