Sometimes I worry that I’ll just give up this useless pursuit of exponentially expontetial information and just become a laxative tester. I mean, why not? Just dive in and ride that comedic wave in the deep end of the spectrum pool I can see it now, wadding water existential movies would be made about me. Slogan’s like ‘In one end and out the other - Questioning the Question’ or ‘Repeating the journey - a saga’. I would be the ultimate random fact or coffee table factoid.
I would win all the weird awards noone hears about. Laxative Bi-annual’s “employee of that didn’t die yet” plaque and the Animal Right’s humanitarian sacrifice award.
Pay’s gotta be good, which I suppose would be necessary for the food I would need, and likewise the weed to eat it. Perhaps not able to really help my son with the information so far beyond my realm of understanding due to so such a lame, but funny job. There are few social dynamics in a washroom stall. In documentaries he’ll say things like 'Yeah, C level celebrity my dad was. I wasn’t laughing when he picked me up from school with shit in my pants. And he wonders why I’m gay…"
My wife, an alcoholic of course will insist on having sex in the shower, to which I’ll gladly oblige because of her liquor oiled skin. We’ll spend our nights watching the more interesting sounding taiwanese version’s of seinfeld and discuss Dostoyevski.
Sitting next to my polluted wife at my son’s graduation I’ll realize this perhaps, is not a joke I should finish telling, but it will be a fleeting thought, interrupted as my wife starts to puke Mr. Henderson’s shoulder.