*caution: the following post mentions bodily functions. why? i don’t know. perhaps they are being used symbolically as a way to say that we all need to find some sort of common denominator in these divided times. or they’re a metaphor shining light on the crumbling infrastructure of…..something. but maybe, just maybe, if you highlight every fourth letter of this post, it will reveal a hidden message.
We all have annoying Facebook friends that shellac us with political posts, gym selfies, and pics of their butt-ugly babies—nothing new to talk about there.
Personally, I like to stay away from ‘putting myself out there’ on the internet. I have boundaries. I don’t need people to know everything about me.
When it comes to social media, my movements are few and far between. Every now and then, I guess, I’ll crowdsource a question that seems important to me. Like lately, for instance, I’ve had this thing going on with my bowels. Without getting too deep into the problem, here’s the gist: I will go about three days without defecating, and then BOOYA—like a warm and cold front colliding, a frenzied twelve hour period ensues in which a torrential downpour produces up to twenty four inches of excrement (to put that in scale: one inch of excrement is equivalent to 36 inches of snow, and 72 inches of rain). If someone knows what would cause this, by all means, pipe up. Yes, you there. What’s that? Who am I going to vote for in the upcoming election? Your mom. Did you not just hear, a moment ago, that I prefer not to share those things on the internet?
Anyways, after this purge, my intestines will lay dormant for another 72 hours. Sure, they’ll bubble, they’ll gurgle, and sometimes even squeak, but there will be absolutely no productive action. Nada. Pardon? Where do I stand on people using the pubic bathroom that they identify with? I’m not going to comment on that, but if I happen to be in one of my violent defecation cycles and a women’s restroom is the only one available, let’s just say I’m going to start feeling very womanish for a brief period of time. I’m not going to sit over here and apologize if some little girl has to listen to that.
This brings us to the color of my pee. For example, I drink a lot of water, so normally my urine is pretty clear, like a mountain creek, or saran wrap. In the morning though, it’s more yellow, probably because I am not able to take in as much water while I am asleep, which results in a deeper urinary shade. Hmmm? Repeat that please. Ah yes, the Confederate flag and free speech. This is similar to the restroom situation above. If I were in dire need of bath tissue and a Confederate flag were the only thing lying around, I suppose I would use it to wipe. I would use any flag to clean myself if that was all that was available.
So back to my pee. Sometimes I have trouble going, and OH GOD WHAT NOW? Fine. You want me to share something personal? Here goes. I’m going to hand you a filthy, dirty secret. I try to use public bathrooms as much as possible. I do. It’s gross, and it’s part of my life. It slashes my toilet paper budget, and if the thing clogs, hey, not my problem. Some teenager named Ashton or Aiden or Sean’Trell gets to clean it up, and it’ll probably learn some sort of valuable life lesson in the process, like the fact that a guy with a spinach-rich diet who only poops every three days will produce thick tubes of green feces capable of clogging a jet-flush public toilet. That’s something you just don’t learn sitting in a government-funded classroom. There. I said something about the government. Now I suppose you want me to click ‘love’ on the picture of your fat, stupid baby. Not gonna happen.
And by the way, sometimes, when I’m in the public restroom, I’ll unwind a little extra toilet paper and take it home with me. Is that a crime? It is a public bathroom. The things inside belong to the public. I am part of the public. Now you probably think I’m some uber-liberal Hillary supporter. Yes, I’m going to vote for her, provided she delivers a solution to my mysterious bowel thing. If Trump can figure it out, then I’m in his corner. Maybe I’ll be in the Dollar Tree bathroom one day and a friendly woman dressed like a man will recognize my symptoms and help me out. There’s no way of knowing.
“Let’s change the way we eat.”
—Tupac Shakur, Changes
I recently ate a Rueben sandwich for the first time. It was pretty good. I like Reuben sandwiches now.
It’s been a rough week for perfect Minnesotans. The superior breed is really letting Blair Walsh have it after the Vikings kicker missed a 27-yard field goal near the end of the team’s 10-9 loss to the Seattle Seahawks. Here are thoughts on Blair Walsh from people who have never made a (televised) mistake in their lives:
“Kickers make that 27-yarder 99% of the time. People are going to remember this for years to come,” said a cow milker who one time couldn’t figure out how to open a condom wrapper, and instead of using the 99% effective rubber birth control device, decided to have unprotected sex and now has to make child support payments for years to come.
“I could have made that,” claimed a vending machine repairman, whose bathroom floor is puddled with urine that never made it into the toilet.
“He stinks,” said an out-of-work dog whisperer who never learned to wipe properly and is perpetually surrounded by a faint poopy smell.
“Little purple gnome miss point and I mad,” said a camouflage enthusiast who does not fully understand English, his first and only language.
“He didn’t focus,” observed a fast food connoisseur who bit her own finger off after thinking it was part of a batch of chicken fries.
“I like to drag my ass on the carpet. Like a dog,” said a guy who likes to drag his ass on the carpet like a dog.
Did you know that my nom de plume for this blog, Michael Cedarwood, was concocted by using the classic porn formula of (middle name) + (street you grew up on)?
But did you also know that like NBA legend Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean-Jacques Wamutombo, I have more than one middle name? And that I grew up on more than one street? With all those names and all those streets under my belt, the identity of my blogging alter-ego had the potential to swing in many different directions.
I have compiled a list of my other middle names and streets that I grew up on. Let us now take a look at what could have been.
Veiny Von Opulent
Lactose Jackson (not to be confused with Catfish Jackson)
Here is a list of the books I read in 2015.
Armstrong, Karen—Muhammad: A Prophet For Our Time (2006)
Barrett, Deirdre—The Committee of Sleep: How Artists, Scientists, And Athletes Use Dreams For Creative Problem-Solving—And How You Can Too (2001)
Bonnett, Alastair—Unruly Places: Lost Spaces, Secret Cities, and Other Inscrutable Geographies (2014)
Bowden, Mark—Killing Pablo: The Hunt for the World’s Greatest Outlaw (2001)
Bradbury, Ray—The Illustrated Man (1951)
Bryson, Bill—Notes From a Small Island (1995)
Bulgakov, Mikhail—The Master and Margarita (written from 1928-40, not published until 1967)
Chamovitz, Daniel—What A Plant Knows: A Field Guide To The Senses (2012)
Christie, Agatha—And Then There Were None (1939)
Cooper, Douglas—The Cubist Epoch (1970)
Danielewski, Mark Z.—House of Leaves (2000)
Didion, Joan—Play It As It Lays (1970)
Fernandez, Oscar—Everyday Calculus: Discovering the Hidden Math All Around Us (2014)
Funke, Cornelia—Inkheart (2003)
Gaiman, Neil—The Graveyard Book (2008)
Heath, Chip and Dan—Switch: How to Change Things When Change is Hard (2010)
Heinlein, Robert A.—The Moon is a Harsh Mistress (1966)
Kaku, Michio—Hyperspace: A Scientific Odyssey Through Parallel Universes, Time Warps, and the 10th Dimension (1994)
Moore, Alan, and Lloyd, David—V For Vendetta (1988)
Ohle, David—Motorman (1972)
Percy, Walker—Lost in the Cosmos: The Last Self-Help Book (1983)
Powers, Tim—On Stranger Tides (1988)
Pratchett, Terry—Thud! (2005)
Pynchon, Thomas—Inherent Vice (2009)
Stoker, Bram—Dracula (1897)
VanderMeer, Jeff—Annihilation (2014), Authority (2014), Acceptance (2014)
Walker, Barbara G.—The Secrets of the Tarot: Origins, History, and Symbolism (1994)
Watts, Peter—Echopraxia (2014)
Samsung has blown us all away with the release of its Virtual Reality Headset. For only one hundred dollars, you can strap your smart phone an inch away from your eyes, and be launched into alternate dimensions.
I went ahead and invented the next generation of this technology. For two hundred bucks, I’ll lead you into a forest, where you can pick out any old stump you want. For an extra fifty, I’ll provide an axe and let you chop down a tree of your choosing.
And for the low low price of three hundred dollars, I will bring you to a store, point you in the direction of the furniture department, and allow you to browse through stools and chairs, any of which you can easily purchase.
Then we’ll go to your house, and I will help you place your new Virtual Reality Ass Holder a foot in front of your television. After that, you can sit on it, and lean forward until your nose is nearly touching the screen. Depending on what kind of TV you have, the world in front of you could be over six feet long! Just compare that to the tiny screen of your smart phone. Congratulations, you are now experiencing a digital life separate from your own depressing, tortured existence, and you don’t need to have a thing strapped to your head.
Next year, instead of dealing with the whole Christmas gift racket, I’m doing this:
<Tell anyone that might be considering me as a gift recipient to instead write down what they would have bought for me
<I’ll do the same for them
<After sifting through the lists, both sides can decide if they would like any of the potential gifts, and go buy them if they want
<I don’t want stuff and I don’t like to shop, so I will end up buying nothing
<I will save a lot of time and money
<Others will save time and money too, unless they want to buy themselves a bunch of stuff that I wrote down