Fiber One Bar = Armageddon
Friday, January 16th, 2009I couldn’t sleep last night. I guess you could say I was restless.
Midnight rolled around and I decided it was imperative that I moisturize myself with no less than five separate lotions: one for my face, one for my under eye area, one for my neck, one for my feet, and one for everything else. Yes, five.
Then, I thought it vital to rearrange the placement of appliances in my kitchen. Why? Who knows.
From there, I wound up googling the background of the name stamped on my bath tub drain- Noble and Thumm. Clearly, there was no better time to locate and cross reference a mention in a 1908 Builders Guide with the founding of the Chicago Faucet Company (1911), and FINALLY figure out that my building is at least 98 years old.
Around 1:30, I figured I should really get around to installing 2009 Ad Aware and do a full scan. Because that’s what you do when you have to get up in five hours. While that loaded, I found myself feeling a bit hungry.
I proceeded to scrounge around the kitchen. A handful of animal crackers here, a swig of cranberry juice there, a Kraft single or two, some Cadbury Dairy Milk, and then….one of those Fiber One bars my mom keeps raving about and I bought on a whim. Why not?
Moisturized and armed with an organized kitchen, a better understanding of my apartment’s history, and a spyware-free PC; I went to bed.
About 40 minutes into my hour and a half commute this morning, peaceably reading Revolutionary Road, I found my intestines waging a revolution of their own. They were angry, growling audibly, ready to throw down at any moment.
I began to pray to all things holy to please, please, puh-lease allow me to make it to the next stop, and the stop after that, and the one after that. Please spare me the Metra bathroom. Please let me walk the nine minutes in the snow to my office. Please allot me another three or four to remove my outer garb and composedly start up my computer. Please. PLEASE!
Panting, throwing my keys, hat, gloves, and whatever else onto my desk; I kicked off my snow boots, grabbed my work shoes, and literally ran shoeless to the Ladies. Just in time to see a coworker duck inside. FUCK!
With a sudden surprising surge of alacrity, I darted up the stairwell to the second floor, all the while screaming in my own mind (or was it out loud?), CLEAR OUT! CLEAR OUT! CLEAR OUT! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!!!
Thankfully, no one was present to witness the sad defeat that ensued.
Fiber One, I concede.
I initially thought your use of the word Armageddon was an instance of hyperbole but on reaching the end of this story I see it so isn’t! How mortifying, at least it all ended… um, well? Also, effing bathroom trolls, I curse them all.
ha, was this meant for TMI thursday? a day late?
just kidding. hope you’re better!
It IS TMI!!!!! I have to admit, I thought of your TMI Thursdays while writing it.
And thank you to both of you while I’m feeling a bit, er, under the fiber. Eek. Maybe this is Bad Pun Friday.
To challenge an F1B in such a way seems to reflect either a bizarre scatalogical masochism or a hubristic (if vain) fist-wave at the gods of digestion.
Either way, it was destined to come to a messy end. So to speak.
Dear Sir;
Yes. Also, you talk funny.
Sincerely,
Nic
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