The Gross One

Because, y'all, this here post is the dozen-dozenth post I've done, which is a "gross," so that shall be what this post is all about. Gross, and grosses, and the psycho-social implications of the gross.

NAW!!!!!!!!!!! Psych!!

Actually, I'm writing this because I think my intestines are trying to tell me something.

My gastrointestinal tract, which is normally so well-behaved, I swear just said "I hurt" in a tone reminiscent of Gollum's precioussssss voice being shunted through the Peter Frampton vo-coder, and now, quite frankly, I'm worried about what they might say next.

Why should I be worried, you ask? WHY? Quite simply, it's because there are secrets, people, that I'd rather nobody but me and my GI tract know about.... and because the GI tract, she is not a liar. She knows that truth about me, the good and the bad, and, yes, the ugly.....

- She knows that when I eat an Applebee's Santa Fe chicken salad, what comes out one end is greener than what went in the other.

- She knows that a whole family-sized bag of popcorn will cause agonies of colossal proportion as the shards of hulls scrape their way down her soft yet muscular tract.

- She knows that a double-cheesburger from McDonald's is as good as an ExLax any old day.

Yessir, my digestrive tract, from beginning to end, knows THINGS, things that people do not know about me, and I'm afraid she's going to start TALKING and I won't be able to SHUT HER UP!

For instance:

-Say I'm in a meeting with a new client, and all of a sudden the transverse colon speaks up in a gargle-y drawl to say "Y'all! Watch out! She had that pinto bean salad for lunch and we're a-brewin' up some mighty mighty gaseous conniptions RIGHT HERE, if we don't call a bio-break soon she's gonna BLOOOOOW!"

Or,

- Say I'm at church (twice a year!), and while I'm shaking hands with the minister and trying to look sincere my esophagus decides to pipe up about the time I ate a whole row of double-stuffed oreos in one sitting and then hid the bag, which makes me not only slothful and a glutton but a big ol' LIAR as well and I'm going to hell sure as the pope wears a funny hat.

Or,

- Say I'm laid out on the gynecologists table and my rectum (God bless her) starts in on how I used to mope at home on Friday nights as a lonely young teenaged girl while munching on nacho-cheese Doritos and watching Fantasy Island and pretending to kiss Ricardo Montalban and feeling very sorry for myself because Donny said that if I lost 20 pounds I'd be a stone-cold fox but as it is he didn't think I was very attractive?

Or,

- Say I'm walking down the street in New York City, and am about to be spotted by an ad agent who thinks I've got just the right "look" for a new line of wrap sandwiches for ladies of a certain age who need to pamper their delicate systems, and the duodenum decides that THAT moment is the right one to announce that "DUUUUDE, she eats lunch out of the vending machines every day and can't be bothered to heave her ASS out of the office chair to DRIVE a half-mile to Taco Bell for a cheap salad, so what makes you think she's going to go ANYPLACE AT ALL for your nasty low-fat cardboard-tasting saliva-sucking dry wrap of an excuse for lunch anyhow, huh?"

(Because my GI tract knows me, and knows that I would not. )

Or,

- Say that I'm at a cocktail party with the upper-level management of my company (it could happen!) and I'm at the bar with the president of the company, and he coincidentally is ordering a bourbon on the rocks like I am just about to do (because me and the bourbon are in love with one another and need to see each other on an almost daily basis or life just isn't the same), and my appendix chooses that moment of star-crossed attention-getting to shout "DAG, y'all! Don't you know that that shit'll ruin BOTH y'alls livers and give you the trots in the morning? Haven't you done enough damage ALREADY without heaping insult on injury? Can't you freaking leave well enough ALONE for one night and give us all a BREAK down here?" At which point I will order a Diet Coke instead, and I'm sure my descending colon, in a voice so low that only my kidneys can hear it, the voice that sounds remarkably like an oily fart on the boil, will hiss out a sarcastic "Oh, shee-yeah, like anybody believes THAT!" and starts laughing through her teeth.

So, yeah, I'm worried that my innards are learning to talk.

Because I'm not at ALL sure I want to hear what they have to say.

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Hey! In a krayzee karmic koinkydink - this gross post was indeed kinda gross! I got Nuthin' but net!