Ass Issues, Redux

It was a slow day at the old salt mine. I was surprised by it; last week was such a harried rush to get everything ship-shape and Bristol fashion before the whole place rolled up like a damn doodle-bug in honor of Thanksgiving that I just figured today would be bedlam. You know, everyone trying to play "catch up" after the two days of office-closure at the end of last week. I expected a complete madhouse.

Therefore, I drove to work anticipating a tough day, and mentally I girded (girt?) up my loins for agita from all quarters. When I got to the office, though, it was like gearing up to smash down a locked door, only to have it swing open from the inside at the last possible moment. I found the place like a mausoleum. Tons of people still off from the holiday, those that were present and accounted for trudging silently through the halls like a bunch of zombies, eyes downcast, everyone still at least partially enveloped in the traditional American post-holiday tryptothan coma. The walking wounded, in a way. Gobble gobble. Or, today, braaaains.

In consequence of my delightfully quiet day at the office, I had the opportunity to read a good bit of news during work hours, a rare treat. Did you hear about that poor little fifteen-year-old girl in Canada who expired when her boyfriend kissed her? She had a peanut allergy, he'd eaten a peanut-butter sandwich sometime before. They played, one assumes, a little open-mouthed tonsil-hockey, and she actually died before the doctors could save her. Horrible, horrible fate.

As bad as I feel for the girl - and her family, may God bless them and keep them - I think I feel worse for her boyfriend. Can you imagine? Probably the first time the kid ever got to first base. I mean, picture it. The lights are low, he's got a little mood-music working...He's finally laying some sweet, sweet love on his babycakes, getting all horned up, maybe edging his preparations to steal second, or something, and blammo. He kills the chick. Dead. Kills her like a roach, with the tiny little chummy oil-slicks of peanut butter and bread left in his mouth after his snack. Shit! Instant issues, just add water spit. That is some serious future therapy money right there, is what that is. I hope he has a good investment counselor. And a good shrink. He'll need both, poor little guy.

I also saw something else, totally unrelated, that I found very, very interesting. While I was browsing the Gawker sites - some of the very few "blog-ish" web entities allowed by my organization's rather, erm, unique URL blocking system - I came across this little number at Sploid. Go read it, and come back. I'll wait.

You back? Good. Can you believe that shit? We have to make bigger needles now, because asses - mostly womens' asses - are, on average, so incredibly fucking humongozoid these days that intramuscular injections with standard length needles no longer reliably hit the mark! They end up lodged in the adipose instead...the layer after layer after layer of adipose that makes up the modern ass, in what I thought was an alarmingly high number of cases.

I feel like I should have something incisive and thoughtful to say about "the so-called 'Obesity Epidemic'" and how the media has manipulated us into thinking that bone-thin Heroin Chic is to be desired, etc, etc. But I don't have a word, not even a bon mot to laugh over. We're getting fatter, is all. You can rant and rage about the media all day long - and some days, I'll even join you - but this ain't their fault, or their creation. When the sawbones community starts, by necessity, ordering from veterinary supply, something very real is happening.

The MichaelMoorization of America. Gaaah!

And that's some sick shit. Either we've just unwittingly tracked an incredibly short-term mammalian ass-evolution, or we're a bunch of slavering hogs. Pick one. Either way is fine with me; at least someone has finally explained, nay, proven to my satisfaction, that I'm not just making this stuff up when I say I can't find a fucking pair of pants that fit anymore.