Potty reading.

I can't stand taking a shit without the proper reading material. Any form of silence makes me feel uncomfortable, and, at the very least, I'd love to wire some noise into my head whilst cleansing the barrel.

Some might wince, crine and grimace (in that order, even!) at the suggestion that potty time is the only fulfilling time to read a book, but I humble digress; I've managed to finish up Catch-22 and Chuck Pahlahniuk's Choke while polishing the Armitage. I genuinely believe that such a feat would've been impossible to achieve on my part if the reading was done anywhere else (though to be fair, I ravaged my way through Choke with sporadic early morning sessions).

My list of things to do in Australia included finishing up the two aforementioned books; with that off the list, I feel somewhat satisfied. And hungry for a little bit more. Unfortunately, stepping into a Borders makes you realize that mainstream book retailers here offer things at a dollar-to-dollar rate, and sometimes even more.

So, to Gomes and Jazza, I was planning to get youse two fellows something special, but the value of the dollar prevents me from doing so.

Ah, well.

May the most pungent activity we partake in be the most aromatic episode of your day. Read a book. In the shitter.

Today.



Hooha. It's difficult to be cynical when you're happy.