Monday, August 23, 2010

Still Smiling

I hate my new toothbrush. If it weren't utterly disgusting too late, I'd fish my old one out of the trash. Besides...dirty dishes, empty ice cream containers, and sulking in a bathrobe all morning, are tall tale signs that my roommate is on her period. Saying that I would be wary of retrieving the Holy Grail from the bathroom trash bin at this point would be an understatement.

One of the things I hate about it the most, the new toothbrush that is, is that it has a raised, braille-like pattern on the back of the brush head, presumably for raking debris and bacteria off your tongue. This annoying feature is not only handy for preventing halitosis, but is equally advantageous for scraping the inside of your cheeks into a soft fleshy pulp as you brush. Yaaay.

So, I purchased an electrical toothbrush and although I like it better than the medieval mutilating torture device that preceded it, I'm still not entirely enamored. Sure, it may do a better job at cleaning my teeth, and perhaps that should be reason enough to keep using it, but it's difficult to get over the feeling that I'm brushing with a vibrator. Not to mention, I haven't quite mastered the trick of not drooling all over myself during the process.

Moreover, the mechanical humming too closely resembles the drills that orthodontists use. Honestly, if I wanted to reenact the sensation of going to the loathed, depressive, suicide-inducing dentist, I would just book an appointment, or submerge my balls in a vat of boiling oil. I'm just saying, no me gusta el dentista.

Monday, August 16, 2010


I figure the best thing to do in this scenario is just to be honest. I suppose you can’t hide from yourself forever. Eventually, your reflection stops believing your lies. The truth is…..I have an addiction. That’s right, it’s finally out. I can breathe now.  The secret no longer needs to be tucked away in tiny envelopes and buried deep in the cavernous bowels of my subconscious.

The thing that gets me the most about the manifestation of this disease is that I should have seen it coming. I should have seen it as easily as one sees the dark ominous clouds that fill the sky prior to the unleashing of a powerful twister. It also should have been obvious given my genetic proclivities. It runs in the family. Invariably, it has found its way to me. It was embedded in my DNA, lying dormant, biding time. I no longer try to deny its existence, but simply attempt to keep its ravenous appetite subdued. Much easier accomplished in theory than in practice I assure you. Idle hands are truly the Devil’s workshop, and spare time only fuels the desire that consumes me. Recently, I’ve begun perusing the dark recesses of the internet in search of my fix. I am addicted….I am addicted I say….My name is Brown a.k.a Mr. Poopie (after my bright disposition) and I am addicted to crossword puzzles.

I don’t rightly know what sparked the fire that is now an uncontrollable blaze. All I know is that I can’t get enough of them. I subscribed to a local newspaper under the pretense that I wanted to be informed. Truthfully, I only wanted it for the puzzles. I wake up each morning, like a giddy child on Christmas day looking forward to opening presents. In diner’s, I excitedly await a patron to finish with his or her newspaper before rifling through it to uncover my prize. I keep a vigilant eye on park benches, coffee shop tables, and store counter tops for evidence of an abandoned newspaper. Just the other day, I did the unimaginable. I absconded with one from a bathroom stall. I’m thinking about joining a support group. I think I may need help.

Sunday, August 1, 2010

Buckets For the Cure

As summer turns the corner into the final stretch, we say good-bye to one of the most ironic and paradoxical fund raising campaigns known to man. As you all undoubtedly know, I have a healthy adoration for breasts and will go to great lengths to defend them in their plight against breast cancer (or any other adversary for that matter). However, upon discovering that Susan G. Komen was joining forces with Kentucky Fried Chicken in order to raise money and awareness for breast cancer, I had to do a double take. I mean, it’s one thing to support breasts by eating a delicious Peppridge Farm Cookie, but it’s entirely another to consume a fried lard bucket of arteriosclerosis.

Breast cancer awareness is a theme that is inherently supported by a concept of health and wellness. It isn’t enough just to tell people that there is a silent killer among women and that if you’re 40 you need to get a mammogram. Breast cancer awareness is a component of overall health, one that includes exercise, an antioxidant rich and balanced diet, and a cognizance of one’s own health and possible genetic proclivities. All of these ideas are vehemently incongruent with what Kentucky Fried Chicken represents. Besides, I always thought the Colonel was more of ass man anyway.

Now, I’m not like some of these radical opposers of this partnership because I think that fried chicken causes cancer. I mean, it is possible that there is a link between obesity and cancer, but I’m not ready to say that a bucket or two will get you there. Ultimately, people make their own choices and if artery clogging, cholesterol saturated, fatty deliciousness is something you enjoy, then by all means, just do so in moderation (I must admit they are tasty). In the future though, I’d like to see Komen be a tad more judicious with her partnerships. 

In the end, however, I suppose a tango with a heart attack is totally worth saving a breast or two. After all, it does add a completely new meaning to getting a bucket-o-breast….Eh, if breasts are your thing anyway. Personally, I side with the Colonel on this one.