As I write this post, I am once again winging my way to the great City o’ Sweat, hard by the Gulf of Mexico in the great state of Texas. I will spend a couple of action-packed days in the Bowels of the Great Corporate Salt Mine, regaling various vice-presidents and other High Muckety-Mucks with stories (mostly fictional) about how I have helped them pad their retirement nest eggs.
But meanwhile, I’ve got another hour of this fershlugginer flight to kill, so I might as well use the time to make the world a better place. How so? You may well ask.
Maybe it’s just my natural turn of mind and maybe it’s my recent post about potato latkes, but I found myself thinking of an affliction from which millions pray daily for relief. An affliction that causes the suffering of multitudes. An affliction from which almost no man, woman, or child on this planet is exempt.
Constipation.
And I have the cure. Safe, simple, 100% effective, requiring no change in diet, no unpleasant medicaments, no foul-smelling unguents, no vile equipment.
No, no need to thank me. Yes, it would be nice to have the odd statue erected here or there in city squares throughout our great land, but my natural modesty forbids. Maybe a nice plastic action figure? Naw, not that. Simply the knowledge that I have been able to ease the pain of millions - including the Famously Constipated Dooce (a phrase I plan to trademark, by the way) - is reward enough. But I digress.
The cure:
Simply travel out of town and check into a hotel. Within mere moments of dropping your luggage on the floor, you will feel a powerful, all-encompassing urge to drop something else.
At least, it always seems to work for me.
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