What I saw in the bowl this morning…

You’re all going to read this, and then realize you wish you hadn’t. Of course, the reverse psychology I’ve just employed will positively guarantee you read it – in fact probably turn down the iPod volume so you can concentrate really, really hard…

Last night, I went to the Whisky Festival. This morning, as I accidentally (I promise!) glanced in the toilet bowl after my de rigeur after-alcoholic binge poo (I told you this was gory!), what did I spy? Lo, and behold, nestled there in the midst of it, was one of those little Cape Apple stickers you get on apples bought singly – no doubt ingested unnoticed while careening down the N1, calling a colleague to say I was on my way to the Festival, trying to line my stomach before indulging in copious amounts of strong alcoholic beverages (with an apple?!? What the hell was I thinking?) If you ever wanted confirmation that paper is not, in fact, food, and that the body will not absorb any of it, I can now confidently assure you of it.

Of course, you’re all repulsed by my revelation, but count yourselves lucky: Peas was forced to smell my pee once after eating asparagus (some of you, the more evolved ones with the necessary enzyme, will know what I’m talking about; the others, don’t ask). Nasty indeed. I lured my poor unwitting friend to the bathroom – halfway during a meal, nogal, and the scent accosted her halfway down the passage!

But enough. The Festival was fabulous, I discovered that more people read this little spill-your-guts (and the contents thereof) blog of mine than I realized which is a…. good thing, and I now have a fine Cigar Malt whisky, not available in our little Southern Hemisphere country, sitting on my table waiting for a suitable occasion. Had bought it with the intention of giving it to the Gilb as a graduation present, but really, what kind of message is that? Getting horribly drunk to celebrate your entry into the “real” world? No no no, I think I should drink the fine spirit on my own, and get him something far more appropriate, like a tie or something.

Well, peaches, I will write anon. Apart from the booby entry I promised, I’ve had another unusual week with men (no nudity, no kisses, before you think bad things of me… again). Honestly, this is beyond me. Can blonde hair really make the difference between wallflower and highly desirable object? It would seem so.

Till next time… safe pooing, all!