Bubbling desires to relate tales of my New York absence not defeating the bubbling loosie goosies roaring in my bowels. The send off meal last night apparently included some funky clam. Actually, it was funky mussels. Funky clam rolls off the queasy tongue better.

Called the Midwest Family Center to assure the parentals that I wasn't shark bait in the Atlantic. Told Pop the trip was smooth, he told me that he, Ma and Baby Sis all had smooth streams of foul gas and violent Hershey squirts erupting from their nether regions. At the time, to Pop's surprise, I was not afflicted with any rapidly mobile brown troubles. Telephony gastronomic soothsayer Pop's new calling. Few hours later after his intestinal prediction, I was making healthy liquid poo storm offerings to the porcelean gods.

Gonna delicately pat my weeping bunghole with soothing greased cotton. The grease mostly being utilised to ease the cork I am about to shove up my ass.