You may want to sit down before you read this. Or maybe not.
Wait: you’re probably already sitting down, with your butt parked in front of a computer monitor.
Anyway, it’s not all that often that She Who Must Be Obeyed will call me in the middle of the day, telling me of a News Item of such colossal import, such burning interest, that I must write a post about it right away. But she did, and so here we are.
The News Item? Well, according to a report that came over the AP wire today, a woman in western Kansas sat on her boyfriend’s toilet for two years...long enough to become attached to the toilet seat as her skin grew around it. Checkit:
Must’ve been some nice bathroom.
Seventeen years ago, on my last trip to Japan, I was booked in at the New Otani Hotel, a High-Rent Crib in the heart of the Akasaka District in downtown Tokyo. When I arrived at the check-in desk, the clerk was apologetic: “So sorry, Erisson-san, but your roomu is not ready yet. Prease accept our aporogies. You wirr have to stay in a different roomu.”
The “different roomu” turned out to be a honking big suite. It was Ultra De Luxe, and I was being charged the room rate for the regular single room I had booked. Just Damn!
And the bathroom...ahhh, that bathroom! I still reflect back upon it warmly. It was gorgeous, completely done up in marble. Absolutely spotless, and equipped with every gadget you might ever want. Color TV, stereo music, the finest porcelain amenities. I was almost sorry I didn’t have a monster case of the Hershey Squirts, the better to justify spending time in there.
But two frickin’ years squatting on your Significant Other’s toilet seat? Hard to justify, I tell ya. And even harder to explain why, without benefit of Super Glue, why one would want to sit there long enough to have your skin start to engulf the seat itself, long enough for your legs to atrophy.
How long, I wonder, would it take for your ass to work itself around the entire toilet, digesting it like an Amoeba Gone Wild? Trying to imagine it makes me shudder. A delicious sort of shudder, the kind that comes from knowing that it’s not my ass stuck to that toilet seat.
I guess if you have someone bringing you your meals, there’s really no pressing need to move. I mean, you’re already on the Throne in the event Nature calls. And all you need is a Teevee Set, so as not to get too bored. Me, I’d want an Internet hookup, so’s I could Blog on the Bog.
I love this world we live in. No need to make up Weird Shit. There’s more than enough of it out there.
Wait: you’re probably already sitting down, with your butt parked in front of a computer monitor.
Anyway, it’s not all that often that She Who Must Be Obeyed will call me in the middle of the day, telling me of a News Item of such colossal import, such burning interest, that I must write a post about it right away. But she did, and so here we are.
The News Item? Well, according to a report that came over the AP wire today, a woman in western Kansas sat on her boyfriend’s toilet for two years...long enough to become attached to the toilet seat as her skin grew around it. Checkit:
[The boyfriend] told investigators he brought his girlfriend food and water, and asked her every day to come out of the bathroom.
“And her reply would be, ‘Maybe tomorrow,’” [Ness County Sheriff Bryan] Whipple said. “According to him, she did not want to leave the bathroom.”
Must’ve been some nice bathroom.
Seventeen years ago, on my last trip to Japan, I was booked in at the New Otani Hotel, a High-Rent Crib in the heart of the Akasaka District in downtown Tokyo. When I arrived at the check-in desk, the clerk was apologetic: “So sorry, Erisson-san, but your roomu is not ready yet. Prease accept our aporogies. You wirr have to stay in a different roomu.”
The “different roomu” turned out to be a honking big suite. It was Ultra De Luxe, and I was being charged the room rate for the regular single room I had booked. Just Damn!
And the bathroom...ahhh, that bathroom! I still reflect back upon it warmly. It was gorgeous, completely done up in marble. Absolutely spotless, and equipped with every gadget you might ever want. Color TV, stereo music, the finest porcelain amenities. I was almost sorry I didn’t have a monster case of the Hershey Squirts, the better to justify spending time in there.
But two frickin’ years squatting on your Significant Other’s toilet seat? Hard to justify, I tell ya. And even harder to explain why, without benefit of Super Glue, why one would want to sit there long enough to have your skin start to engulf the seat itself, long enough for your legs to atrophy.
How long, I wonder, would it take for your ass to work itself around the entire toilet, digesting it like an Amoeba Gone Wild? Trying to imagine it makes me shudder. A delicious sort of shudder, the kind that comes from knowing that it’s not my ass stuck to that toilet seat.
I guess if you have someone bringing you your meals, there’s really no pressing need to move. I mean, you’re already on the Throne in the event Nature calls. And all you need is a Teevee Set, so as not to get too bored. Me, I’d want an Internet hookup, so’s I could Blog on the Bog.
I love this world we live in. No need to make up Weird Shit. There’s more than enough of it out there.
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