Suggested Audio Jukebox ♬
 George Formby “It’s Turned Out Nice Again”
 Beyoncé “Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)”
 Oingo Boingo “Weird Science”
 Charles Penrose “The Laughing Policeman”
If life really is what you make it then mine’s a balloon animal dagnabbit. An odd choice I know but it was either that or a pile of septic plasters and, after careful deliberation, I opted for the one less likely to result in infection. I’ve had forty-two-years on the front lines and life is no less of a mystery now than it was when algebra was first introduced into school curriculum. Granted, I may have mastered the basics such as respiratory function and two-fingered masturbation, but there is still so much I have to learn and I’m dreading the day when we’re tested on this. You see, I never did care much for examination, and this is attested by the fact that it took eight driving tests to finally earn my stripes. Put me on the spot and it soon falls to pieces, apply a little too much pressure and I’ll invariably begin foaming from the mouth like Cujo, shine the search light in my eyes and the word “mommy” will never have sounded so authentic. Or at least, that used to be the case.
More recently, I’ve adopted a far more footloose and fancy free approach to this thing called life and no longer feel quite so under the kosh. I’m not suggesting for a second that I’ve got a damn thing figured out as I’m every bit as clueless as I was way back when but with every day that passes I take another step along the road to nowhere and, at my current rate of knots, I’ll have reached my destination by around April 12th, 2037. That’s a little over twenty years of aimless wandering and, as long as the heart in my chest doesn’t explode, I reckon I’m on course for making it to this far distant beacon in tact. Actually, I’ll be damn lucky to be alive on this day next year, but I’m not about to go expecting the worst as it tends to be frighteningly punctual in such circumstances. Whether I succeed is irrelevant as it’s the journey undertaken that I care about and, should I unexpectedly croak, then there’s always cryogenic freezing if technology continues its advances.
That said, I hear they only freeze the head, and I’ve grown rather accustomed to the nuts and bolts surrounding it. It took rather a long time to grow comfortable in my skin but, now I’m snug, I happen to be rather fond of the sinew. I think a lot of it has to do with accepting the hand you’re dealt as we all gotta deal and no amount of griping about it will make our elbows any less pointy. Some of us are fortunate enough to be vaguely attractive, others have winning personalities, but we are who we are and ain’t a damn thing likely to change unless we stop becoming who we are and become someone completely different instead. Even then, we’ll still be us, just not quite as much us as we were before. I guess we’ll be more them but, to us, we’ll always be little old us. Meanwhile, whatever will become of them? Fret not as they may be them, but to them they’re simply us. What is the point I’m looking to make here? I dunno, I lost myself at us. Why don’t you go and ask them?
I guess what I’m saying is that even Beyoncé does poos. I know it seems ludicrous to imagine her sitting atop her porcelain throne, squeezing something out that’s far too hefty for the hole provided, but there has to be some reason why Jay-Z leaves it a good forty minutes before brushing his teeth in the morning. I hear that even her majesty the Queen embarks on a daily bowel movement and, contrary to speculation, this doesn’t comprise golden eggs. I wouldn’t put it past the old girl parting her legs before flushing just to ascertain what one has dropped off this fine morning. Being royalty doesn’t get her off the hook with regards to taking a dump and, given that she’s now in her nineties, involuntary flatulence is every bit as inescapable an outcome. She may look all adorable in lavender as she attends her social engagements but that doesn’t mean she’s not relinquishing excess methane the whole time while blaming it on Prince Philip. I don’t know about you but I take considerable comfort from that.
Donald Trump may have recently been elected into office and have a fair few bob in his off-shore bank accounts but I hear he also has a tiny little penis that resembles a knuckle in a cowpat and it seems only fair to me that he suffer this particular affliction. Indeed, his miniscule party sausage no doubt prompted him to make something of himself in the first place and, had he been better endowed, then it all could have worked out quite differently. By the same token, Ron Jeremy never had to concern himself with crunching numbers, as his gargantuan schlong afforded its own unique advantages and, credit to him, he milked this USP for all it was worth. Meanwhile, at another set of coordinates entirely and in totally unrelated news, Teddy Riley’s tallywhacker measured in at the national average so he changed the word doubt to diggity just to appear all edgy. I’d love to know where I’m actually going with this random rant but, if I did, then it wouldn’t be so much cotton-picking fun now would it?
Perhaps I should have paid more attention during chemistry lectures, as opposed to teasing paperclips into live plug sockets. Actually that was physics but they all seemed to blend into one after a while. Biology I remember as that was the one with the cool skeleton but I think it would be fair to assume that science wasn’t necessarily my forte. Life on the other hand is something I’ve learned to grow into and still manages to bamboozle me at every turn as I’m reasonably certain that it makes up the rules as it goes along. There comes a time when we just accept it despite any quirks as I highly diggity it’s ever going to change its spots as that would put leopards out of business and they’re only about a dozen safari-themed drive-bys from endangered as it is. Speaking of which, have you ever heard the term “it is what it is”? Don’t suppose you have any idea what it isn’t do you? Please forgive me, I’m just thinking out loud.
So about that chemistry then. Well I distinctly recall promising some kind of experiment at the offset and it would be highly unreasonable of me not to come good on my oath. I may not be able to recite the periodic table element by element, but I believe I have the basics pretty much licked. Unless my calculations are way off, chemistry is more of a team sport than solo endeavor and that makes dancing the Tango nigh-on impossible without a partner. There needs to be some kind of fusion for the bunsen burner to commence firing and this likely explains why we spend half of our lives with our arm aloft screaming “pick me, pick me”. Nobody wishes to be the last sorry sap selected so we do our darndest to stand out from the crowd, desperate to snag ourselves that elusive spotter. My writing has opened a number of doors, some of which slammed back in my face, while others remain ajar out of polite courtesy. This provides a small window of opportunity to practise some of that delightful chemistry shenanigans they keep advertising just before the watershed and I’ve got the rubber gloves on before you can say “ahem, that’s not where the test tubes are stored”.
Just for the record, I’m still winging it here. I know how you like to take notes and wouldn’t want there to be any confusion as I still haven’t quite worked out what the hell I’m meant to be blathering about. Indeed, it wouldn’t surprise me greatly if you were beginning to suspect that I have lost my mind and, before you go prodding and poking, I’ll have you know that I’m aware precisely where it is. Only last week I received a post card although curiously without a forwarding address. The most important thing is that it is alive and well and I’m assured it will return to the barracks once I eventually get round to refurbishing my cranium. That reminds me (and don’t ask me why), if doubt is diggity then does that mean that the band No Doubt should now be referred to as No Diggity. Meanwhile, it would only be right if the song No Diggity returned the favor right? I know I’m like a dog with a bone with this one but I want to know what tracks I’m requesting at Bar Mitzvah after parties. I’m not big on modern R&B you see, whereas Gwen Stefani is more than welcome to hollaback anytime she requires a colonic.
Perhaps this is how dementia starts. Well either that or rocking gently back and forth in one’s seat but it’s cold in this tool shed and I have to find some way of keeping the circulation flowing dagnabbit. Mind out of the gutters please as I’d like to remind you of the embargo I placed on throttling my ferret within five yards of a pair of rusty garden shears. Have I been known to urinate in a bucket on occasion? Okay you’ve got me, but I always wash it out thoroughly straight afterwards and that’s more than Justin Bieber can claim. In my topsy-turvy estimations, that makes me twice the man he is and almost a quarter of Tom Hanks. JB may have sold a few platinum records, but he still resembles solidified phlegm under ultraviolet light and I hear they’re planning to make mucus flammable so he’d better enjoy the short-lived fame and find himself a safe house to hide away in while he consoles himself with the never-ending royalties from Baby Baby. Who cares if he’s the only agoraphobic twentysomething in the entire world to wipe his bum with a hundred-dollar bill? It’s Abraham Lincoln that I feel sorry for as he fills in for Benjamin Franklin on weekends.
Right then, I believe that our experiment is over and, as with any good scientific demonstration, I shall summarise this shit and slip back into my straitjacket before my afternoon electrified sponge bath. Just one question? Does that mean I will required to close with something meaningful? Must I? Can’t I just tie things cleverly back to Beyoncé doing a poo? That one had legs you know. I’m not even kidding, observing her dumping was akin to watching March of The Penguins on x64 speed. I swear she even named one of her lumpy stowaways Clifton. It doesn’t look like Plan A is washing with you lot, so it looks like I’ll be required to activate Plan B instead. In case you were wondering, that entails slowly shuffling off stage in as inconspicuous a manner as possible. Will it work? Could I ever hope to evade the roving search lights without arousing one beyond suspicion? No diggity.