My Body Is Exploding

Well, so I turned 30 in June, and I figured it was nigh time that I went to the doctor and got myself inspected and stamped with a freshness date. So I show up, strip, get random gaping needles jammed into various body parts, cough while the doctor is strategically cradling my tender manhood, and then throw my clothes back on and head home.

It turns out that I have elephantiasis of the ego. No, wait...I have extremely high cholesterol levels. Not the elephant thing. Also, I am dying, slowly. Apparently one's body begins to slowly decay when one reaches the respectable age of thirty, forever turning its back on the majestic fruits of young manhood and sprinting at full speed towards wrinkled, diabetic prune. If only somebody had told me this sooner, I might not have wallowed in the sordid debauchery I so eagerly embraced when I turned 29. Twenty-nine is a good year! I shall forevermore respond to any question about either the condition of my scrotum or my age by ejaculating twenty-nine at top volume, after which I slowly lower my gaze to the ground beneath my shoes and begin to sob uncontrollably.

Last night, in a calculated and methodical fashion

I dreamt that John Kerry and Ted Kennedy were brothers, and Ted Kennedy's maiden name was Ted Kerry. And this was a big secret that nobody was supposed to know.

Also, there was a man in my dream who was missing his right hand, and in its stead, nailed into the stump, was a small stool that doubled as a prosthetic hand. When this man needed a rest, he would simply swing his prosthetic stool underneath him onto the ground and have a seat. He had a whole set of different stools he used interchangeably, from shiny black metal stools to ones with urbane walnut legs and elaborate latticeworks.

That is a kickass idea. I'm going to patent it right now.