Pull My Funnybone is severely offensive and dangerous. Reading Pull My Funnybone may cause an obsession with silkworms, anal leakage, mental confusion, cramps, lung flukes, dementia, genital warts, hairy tongue, paranoia, fatigue, blurry vision, skin tags, intense yeast infections, bot flies, pitting edema, diarrhea, constipation, pica, tree frog fixation, nausea, hallucinations, dry mouth, excessive salivation, nightmares, bunions, bed sores, uncontrollable twitching, goiter, and an immense hatred of this writer and therefore should not be read by anyone. Save yourself now and go look at pictures of cute puppies and kittens.
Friday, October 19, 2012
I realized I had a problem when friends started making comments about my shitting. I believe alcoholics call this, "A moment of clarity." It started when I would go to a friend's house and they would casually point out where the bathroom was located. "So, Gwen, let's pass by the bathroom and go sit in the living room." This was particularly odd because the bathroom was on a different floor than the living room.
And when I leave I don't get, "Drive Safely!" or "It was so great to see you!" Instead I get, "Please don't shit on my front lawn." One time I happened to shit on the front lawn of a friend's house. Now I'm treated like I flew a plane through one of the twin towers. Perhaps my friend's over reaction had something to do with the fact that her dog then rolled in it and went happily running through her house. I thought dogs really loved peanut butter but man, they go wild over human waste.
(Just a tip for the ladies.)
I've fantasized about starting Shitter's Anonymous. "Hi, I'm Gwen and I'm a compulsive shitter." But then I realized another group equally as important would be left out: the pant-pissers.
I also piss my pants. Not regularly--but it has happened. In fact, you can see it live on my video Quattro Formaggi under the videos section. It's in the bloopers clips at the end.
A few years ago I was at a cook out. I was wearing a skirt. I went inside to get my purse in the living room. My friend made a joke and I doubled over with laughter--and proceeded to urinate all over the living room floor in front of a bunch of strangers. If my friends weren't so funny I wouldn't have this problem.
Eight years ago when I was picking out features for my car a friend said, "What ever you do, make sure you get leather seats." "Because they are nicer than cloth, right?" I asked. "No, because when you piss yourself you don't have to worry about ruining your seats." (This advice was from a friend who once pissed in her cat's litter box so she didn't have to leave her bedroom to go to the bathroom.) At the time I thought her advice was useless and ridiculous. Little did I know taking her advice would pay off in the fecal department as well.
Speaking of pissing my pants in the car, how come every time I get on a highway for a road trip my brain instantly sends an urgent signal to my bladder that I need to pee immediately? Even if I just pissed one minute before getting in the car? It's like my brain is tapped into some GPS where it can tell that the next rest stop isn't for another twenty miles. "Send her the signal NOW!!" My brain screams. Getting off at the next exit takes too much effort so I just keep driving. I'm seriously considering wearing adult diapers. I have this image of me looking calm, relaxed, my hair flowing in the breeze and pissing myself silly all the way across state lines.
And I wonder why my blog doesn't get me laid. I suppose it would be more disturbing if it did.
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