misAdventures of Workmonkey 3.0

Sincerest regards. I've recently returned from intercontinental travels which have rendered me unable to attend to my most respected duties of journal entry. Such travels brought me to the wild, untamed beaches of a small Spanish outpost named for one of their Saints. It is known as Diego. This land was filled with the most delectable mead, and very exotic foods consisting of crispy breads and mashed roots. The locals villagers are of a tan skin unknown to those in the great lands of our fathers. Me and the others were transported across their beautiful salt-water bay upon a vessel carved out of the local tree. Upon return from this arduous journey, me and a small team of explorers, commissioned by our great fathers as the Corps of Endeavor, carried a small flag up into the undiscovered anddesolate wilderness referred to by the local Indians as "Hampton", which our guide translated to "land of paper mountains". This place must have been created by angel Gabreal himself. Pools of eternal water dot the landscape, as do fields of sand, where the natives engage in a much cherished game in which a air-filled ball is tossed back and forth over a net until it drops upon the sand. The natives were of large stature, and arranged for a feast upon our arrival, in which I gorged myself upon fantastical birds of prey, large land mammals they likes of which I have never seen, and fish from the local streams. I have since returned, however, to my more scholarly and professional duties, and shall henceforth return to the sincere patronage of this literary record. I do beg your sincere pardon as I once more regain the habits to which you have become thus accustomed. In good spirits I bid you a solicitous farewell.

I've recently become obsessed with a recurring daydream in which I imagine I'm sent back in time (the time itself varies, but is usually either in ancient Mesopotamia, the Middle Ages, the Revolutionary War Era, or right before the Civil War). In the daydream, the leading intellectuals and scientists of the period flock to me for my future wisdom. They ask question upon question, and implore me to teach them how to advance society. The problem is, I've gone back in time with nothing other than the clothes on my back, and thus have to use my own knowledge to help recreate a modern society. Now here is where the daydream gets interesting. I ask myself exactly how much of modern society I would be able to build with nothing other than my brain. The answer? Unfortunately, not much. At all. I could tell the people in the past all about antibiotics, and steel, and engines, and toothpaste, and contact lenses, and golf balls, and hair gel. Their faces would light up in utter fascination as we sat around a fire discussing flying machines. But if they then asked me how they could make any of those things? I'd have not the slightest idea.

Age recently sent me an online test that confirmed my theory. The test asked basic questions, such as if you could name the three primary ingredients of steel, identify an internal combustion engine, or even describe the process for making rubber. I was woefully incompetent. I mean shit, I wouldn't even know how to make popcorn. Where do kernels come from? How do you make butter? What metal are skillets made from? Iron? Where do you get that? How do you start the fire to heat the skillet to pop the kernels? Where do you go for salt? How do you make an SOS Pad to scrub the skillet? What about soap and paper towels?

So who could transform society? Blacksmiths, engineers, farmers, electricians, mechanics, doctors. People who actually have useful skill and could make something actually work. Someone who knows how to make an antibiotic, grow wheat, or shape steel. What about all of us? The regional managers and real estate agents and useless copywriters? What could we teach? How to concept an ad for an auto company? How to balance a spreadsheet?

At this point in the daydream, upon realizing how useless I'd be, I simply start to wow all the hot bitches from the past who are all interested in sleeping with a man of the future. I just travel around the world, the most popular man around, and have frequent sex with the hottest chicks I can find, which is easy, since they get all turned on because I can tell them that the earth is actually round, plus they're all curious to know if a man from the future is any better in bed than a man from the past (they'd quickly find out men in the future have no made in advancements in the area of sex). Or sometimes the daydream verves into the military realm, where I imagine that I've brought back a Gatling gun with endless rounds of ammunition, and thus become the most feared warrior in the past. I literally could annihilate the entire 15th century English army on my own. This makes me even more desirable to all the bitches, so I go have even more sex, but this time with hot princesses and queens and dutchess. Of course, they were plagued with tons of venereal diseases back then, so i'd have to be sure to bring lots of condoms, which men would pay me blocks of gold for. I've never gotten past this part in the daydream, as I've usually reached my subway stop by this point. But if I were to continue it, I'd probably teach people the basics of democracy, and then go back to searching the countryside for hot chicks. At this point the daydream would become a fantasy. And I'm not quite ready to share fantasies with you on this blog. But feel free to explore this daydream and inform me of what you think you could contribute, if anything, to past societies. Online auction sites don't count.

Is it too early to start planning out a career change? Granted, i've only been in advertising for three years. But that is enough time to confront the issues at hand. First problem, nobody likes ads, including me, so spending a whole day making something nobody thinks are good except for ad people doesn't seem particularly fruitful. Second problem, I'm in a service industry, meaning I have to listen to douche bag clients all day and actually pretend I find their horrific advice useful. Third problem, I look at the people who are further down in their career than I am and don't want to be in their place (except for their salary level). Fourth problem, well, isn't necessarily an advertising gripe. I've figured out that corporate world, as a general rule of thumb (as opposed to a specific rule of thumb, or general rule of pinkie finger), wasn't created for people of my constitution. Anything involving offices, conference rooms, meetings, emails about meetings, meetings about emails, managers, cafeterias, managers of cafeterias, vending machines, grey carpet, copy machines, copy writers, cubicles, cuticles, receptionists, receptionists with cuticles, and printers wear me out. And going to the same place day after day to do the same thing. Predictability. Repetition. Predictability. Repetition. Predictability. Repetition (kind of like this blog). Is there a job that entails completely changing your job every two years? I want to be a dentist for two years (and kick Taj's ass in billings), then become a marine biologist, then a car salesman, then a bar owner, then a politician, then a tanning saloon clerk. All in different countries. And get paid a lot to do it. In truth, I get paid a lot now to do something that is pretty damn easy and could be a lot worse (i.e. I could work for some tech company like eBay or PayPal or clean up cobra shit at the zoo.) So I'm not going to rock any boats. Not that I know anyone with a boat, even if i felt like rocking one (except for my sister's friend in SD. maybe I'll fly out there and rock it for awhile before coming back.) So i'll keep making the ads that you guys fast forward through and ignore, collect the checks in an attempt to achieve early retirement, all while continuing to develop my beer hobby and entertain all two of you with this blog. Don't ever say I am not a man full of ambition.

In the summer of 1986, I took a three-day summer trip to Las Vegas with the family of Eddie Maschino, the incredibly eccentric (and incredibly adopted) friend I made in the first weeks of moving to San Diego. It was on a particularly sweltering day during this trip (useless fact, all days in Las Vegas are "sweltering") that I first became consciously aware of the fact that I was a pussy, or at least in the beginning stages of becoming one. If I was a pussy before this particular day in 1986 (i'm not sure of the biological and chemical makeup of pussys), I either wasn't aware of it, or hadn't been put in a situation that pushed my pussyness to the surface. The experience in question occurred at my favorite Las Vegas destination before becoming familiar with the pleasures of money loss, tequila shooters, and twenty-dollar dances. I'm talking about the (recently closed) Wet 'n Wild Water Park. Built in 1984, and positioned in prime location at the end of the strip, it allowed parents to drop off their kids for a day of fun while they withered away the day yanking the handles of slot machines.

It was on this day during the summer of 1986, surrounded by the delightful squeals of piglets (i mean little kids), the shimmering green light reflecting from the lazy river, and the scents of coconut sunscreen and corn dogs, that I first encountered Der Stuka.

This was the Mt. Everest of age 12. It was a 76-foot high water slide of pure drop, but it might as well been 40,000 feet, starting on a cloud. I heard rumors that your body hit speeds of over 10,000 mph on this slide. It was also heard that someone died on this behemoth at least once an hour, their body torn to shreds by the velocity. Sometimes, they'd get on the slide, and only an arm would come down.

I think I vomited a little in my mouth when I saw it. My stomach churned. I started to tremble. My mind went haywire. No fucking way as I going on that one. Every single cell in my body was in unanimous agreement. The Der Stuka was not for Mark Anderson.

Problem was, Eddie had the exact opposite reaction. I turned to him for support, hoping we'd both agree that only the insane would even attempt to ride that beast. Might as well try to ride a grizzly bear (see relevant blog for more information on tactics for this). Instead, Eddie's eyes lit up. He smiled widely, revealing that weird double tooth that comes out of the upper gums of some kids. "Let's go," he shrieked, as he ran towards the stairs. I froze. This wasn't a conscious choice for me. The pussyness had infiltrated my muscles, refusing them movement. I couldn't have moved even if Ving Rhames attempted to push me. As I stood there, heart spinning, the pussyness took over even more, forcing an excuse out of my mouth that made no sense (i think ultimately I told Eddie I needed more sunscreen or something, then ran off and hid, attempting to get my pulse down).

After three more trips to the Wet 'N Wild over the years, I never was able to tackle the Der Stuka. Metaphorically speaking, I still haven't. The pussyness has bulged and grown inside me, to the extent that today, the biggest risk I take on a yearly basis is riding the subway and eating Chinese food. I've never even been on an looped roller coaster, that's how far the pussyness has penetrated my existence.

Why am I bringing this up now? Mostly because of a conversation I had a few weeks ago with an orthopedic surgeon at a friend's birthday party. In the midst of your average drunken party conversation, I revealed to him the extent of my knee problems, cockily bragging how I've been living life without an ACL for the past two years (which I consider the highest sign of toughness in my life. i've never broken a bone, so the torn ACLs is all I have). I told him how I brave the pain to still run on a treadmill and just try to take one day at a time and get by. At this point, he absolutely crushed me by informing me that John Elway actually played his entire career without an ACL, including those 5 Super Bowls he played in. Thurman Thomas too.

Sweet.

I slithered away from that conversation, dropping the fake for-sympathy hobble i've adapted to my walk. For the past two years, I thought I might not be a pussy. Unfortunately, it seems to be a lifelong affliction. Some people win Super Bowls without ACLs. Others (the pussys) eat french fries, work in advertising because they're too afraid and untalented to try something truly creative, and write overly-long, boring blogs for disinterested readers in an attempt to relieve some of the guilt of being a total and complete pussy . (Luckily, none of you made it this far to read that).

As the boredom of the workday was threatening to consume me, I decided to spend this afternoon reading some of my archived blogs. First off, I owe each and every one of you a sincere apology. Not even I could read that crap, and I authored them. I was Mr. Sappy M. Fucker. Unreal. Have I always been the emotional equivalent of a twelve-year old girl from the Sweet Valley High books? Jesus. I wrote about sunsets, love, art, baby blankets. I always fancied myself to be a bitter, unemotional, unassailable pillar of strength. Instead I am more like a pillar of goat cheese quiches and vanilla candles. My writings from Europe were reminiscent of a college sophomore writing letters home to his ailing grandma, who'd then read them aloud to her toothless nursing home friends after Jell-O Wednesdays. Christ. I'm sickened.

Another interesting element of reading your own past writings is the sensation you are looking over someone else's writing altogether. Reading the blogs I wrote from Europe made me feel I was peering into the thoughts of some twenty-two-year-old kid from Wichita named Tom Lambard. In other words, someone I've never met before. Someone I wasn't even related to. That trip happened about seven years ago, which is enough time to have wholly changed as a person. As you get older, you don't feel like you change as much as when you were younger, which had many more physical markers (i.e. growing seven inches in two years or having an entirely different voice from one month to another somehow stood as clear evidence of your progression). Today, we're all radically different than we were, we just don't look it (except for the 1700 lbs and gray hair i've developed since high school). Although there's fewer ceremonies to mark growth (like graduations) the change is still as substantial as it was in high school. I hope the string theory hopes to prove true one day and I'll get to meet incarnations of me from the past. It'd be great to give myself speeches about how dumb I was, am, and will be. If I even recognized former versions of myself.

I wrote a lot more about my day-to-day life back then. I've closed that part of the blog down, as my honesty has offended enough co-workers and friends to learn a mild lesson. I've tried political rants, topical rants, drunk rants ... Really, the only piece I have left is the area I've always perceived as being the weakest in my blog writing (besides the lack of anything interesting to say), which is the power of description. When I read magazine articles, I am awed by their sense of word choice and ability to create a sense of perspective. My writings from Asia and Europe were woefully inadedquate in that respect (as was that choice of the cliche woefully inadequate). I wrote about cobblestone streets, hostels, and mashed potatoes, without giving any real description of anything. There's a difference between mashed potatoes, and garlic wasabi mashed potatoes whipped to the consistency of frozen clouds. Those few words make all the difference. So expect to see more of that in the coming weeks, as this blog hopefully transforms as much as I have.

At a social engagement last night, it was suggested to me (perhaps in jest?) that a perfect way to celebrate my upcoming thirty-second birthday would be an attempt to grapple with either the Power Hour or Century Club. The Power Hour, of course, is an alcoholic drinking game popular among our nation's youth, involving the consumption of a single shot of beer (1.5 ounces) every minute for sixty minutes. The more ambitious, professional version of this game (to be considered only upon mastery of the Power Hour) is referred to as the Century Club, in which consumption of said shots of beer continues for 100 minutes instead of only 60. Although the metric system, and corresponding equations, are not my area of specialty, basic research has revealed that at that rate of consumption, you will essentially be asked to imbibe 8 or 9 beers in the allotted time. Certainly doable, albeit some important choices need to be made, primarily the choice of beer (the lighter and least carbonated the better) and choice of food.

Psychologically, the reasons for a 32-year-old professional male to make an attempt at filling his stomach with beer at a measured rate for 100 minutes isn't particularly complex. I am making an obvious attempt to eschew what I see as "adulthood" through my involvement with so-called "juvenile" games. It is a way to take a break from my forced marriage to maturity by throwing myself into the minefields of immaturity. On a lesser level, it is also a matter of redemption. As I spent half of college attending to the needs of my Seventh-Day Adventist roommate, I had a stunted and unfulfilling college experience, which is why to this day I am holding off full acceptance of adulthood (which I see as hideously boring anyway) as long as socially acceptable. Even further, this is an exercise in self-discovery: particularly, am I biological developed enough to accomplish the consumption and absorption of 9 beers in 100 minutes? This isn't a matter of bragging or accomplishment. I'd feel no particular strength if I am in fact able to accomplish this task. It'd be no more or less rewarding than being able to pick a fantastic booger from my nose every minute for 100 minutes. It is simple curiosity. It is a challenge, and no matter how seemingly empty, it is a challenge I am challenged by.

Let me not fail to mention there's the all-important desire to absolutely destroy Lee's attempt at the century club, which ended upon shot 37 (which by my math is about 3 beers worth), though I doubt I'll find that difficult.

If I do decide upon this adventure, I figure I'll post blogs updates every ten minutes or so, to track the progress of alcohol on my writing. I could try something more appropriate for my age, such as finally tackling a Leo Tolstoy book or attempting to grow a spice garden, but this seems the Century Club might make for a better blog. Besides, I work each day, every day, and will for years and years. That is enough adulthood to suit me for a lifetime. It is time to balance things out, and pay homage to the beauty and simplicity of the irresponsible, and consequently enjoyable, acts of youth.

The day has arrived. Details are still hazy as to whether or not we are going for the Power Hour or full Century Club, but when the guests arrive that determination will be made. In any event, i've prepared. Went to the gym this morning, ate a protein-rich breakfast (i.e. i gave my neighbor a blowjob), have been drinking plenty of water, and have taken the necessary pills (anti-heartburn). I'll provide upates as the activities progress.

4:30 PM
We are about to begin. My beer of choice is Coors Light, with a mix of Bud Light, to see which is better. Jessie and Jill are joining John and I for as long as they can. My stomach is ok now (it never feels good). A bit unsettled. But maybe that is nervousness. So enough, let's get started.

4:40 PM
The first ten go down pretty easy. I'm burping readily, not feeling bloated. The Coors Lite was a good choice. A bit carbonated, but then, I guess I couldn't expect water. I can already see where the difficulty will arise. The minutes go by more than you expect. I can drink a lot, but at my own pace. This pace is forced. If I need a few minutes to gather myself, I don't have it. I'm questioning what I ate this morning (a bagel, some soy milk, some chips). That isn't enough. The stomach is a bit shrunk. The reason for this was Lee's story of eating before his attempt. He filled up on sushi, and made it to 38 due to lack of space. I didn't want to make that same mistake, but may have erred on the side of too little food - after 10, I'm feeling a quarter full, which puts me at 40 shots. Though as long as I beat Lee's number, I'll accept anything else.

4:50 PM
Twenty shots in. I'm feeling it (probably because of the empty stomach). The interesting part is how little a shot is. I'm used to big drinks when I drink. The shots are small. But their frequent. Amazing how quick a minute comes. Stomach feels fine at this point. Not perfect, but acceptable. The girls are still hanging strong. My biggest concern at this point is my inability to burp. It is an affliction i've always had. I have burps sit in the middle of my esophagus (proof that I'm feeling it, it just took me two minutes/two shots to figure out the spelling of esophagus). Playing on the iPod: 2Pac/Hit 'Em Up. My burps have been ok, but this is clearly going to be a problem. I need more than a minute to burp, and nothing is worse than taking a shot when you have to burp. Whoops. Just burped and beer came up. Time to go.

5:00 PM
My shot taking sucks. I swallow, I don't gulp. That's why I fucking suck at beer bongs. I can't open my throat up. Something to do with my paranoid, fucking hypochondriac nature. I feel like i'll choke. It reminds me of when I was in 8th grade and had to take Tetracycline for my acne problem. I would chop up the pills because I was afraid I'd choke on them, even though the instructions told you to never break up the pill (the reason for this I read just about six months ago: most of a pill is a placebo. the active part of it is usually in the center, and requires interaction with your stomach acids to activate. If you break it or cut it, the chemical reaction is broken, and it can fuck everything up. That probably why I had zits through high school). Anyway, I'm definately feeling it at shot 30. I should've eaten more. Proof I'm almost drunk: I just told a useless story from my childhood, can't spell correctly, am totally losing concentration. See right there, just forgot an and.

5:10 PM
Stomach is feeling it. Tossing and turning a bit. Amazing how quick you can actually get drunk when you force the issue. At a bar, it takes hours. But then, you are spending hours drinking. Not this time. When you really want to get drunk you can. I remember when we were in college at condo 12 and headed to a party at Theta Chi. We had 15 minutes, and needed to get drunk. We hit four shots of Jagermeister (is that the right spelling?) in those 15 minutes and were totally drunk. That's my personal record.

I love that I'm 32 and talking about this.

I'm hurting.

5:20 PM
Shot 40. I'm highly doubting this will happen. I'm gonna try to beat the 65 you guys tested me with. But no more. The girls have dropped out. We have a puppy here that Jessie brought. Why the fuck did Jessie bring a puppy? She doesn't have one. Some friend I guess. I'm definately feeling it. Why is definately underlined as if I spelled it wrong? I'm pretty sure that is right. The minutes are FLYING by. Literally, I just wrote that sentence and John said, "shot." Very non-descript when he speaks. Just informs me. Like he's telling me that my cable bill is due.

Stomach is hurting. Every burp brings back a beer. This blog is gonna suffer.

5:33 PM
Not sure what is happening here. It is 5:33 PM. Not sure where we are on the shots. Not sure I can type, actually. I'm definately drunk. God fucking damn it. Why is this underlining definately? Am I spelling it wrong? This fucking spell check is like an evil fucking warlock. What is the difference between a warlock and a wizard? I wanted to say wizard but then chose warlock. What about a sorcerer? What is that? How are they different? What is a female warlock? A Warlockess? I know sorceress works. Jesus. It seems like John calls "shot" every fucking second. Seriously, he must be fucking with me. This is not every minute. No chance.

I have no chance of hitting 100. No fucking chance. Can I beat Kenta's pick? Kohli's pick. I'll fucking make that. I just gotta hit 70.

Amazing. Before trying this. 100 shots of beer sounded like nothing. I thought I'd have no problem. But this is definately added up. FUCK FUCK FUCK! Fucking stop underlining definately! I know it is right!!!! fuckers.

5:40 PM
Food is helping. Not sure if that is allowed in college level. But true Century Club means no pissing, no food, no anything. But that's bullshit. I'm 32, i Make the fucking rules. That was nice just now. Capitalizing the M in make. NOt sure why. But the . hmm. forgot the sentence there. Jesus. Another shot. One sec. I got a second wind. but then lost it. This is like sixteenth wind. Now I feel like i'm gonna puke.

Just got an update. shot 56.

5:50 PM
Hmm, not sure why I wrote 5:50. It is 5:47 Pm. small m. I'm definately getting a small wind. I swear to all of you, those of you who read, those of you who don't read, those of the small children of people who wear undergarments, and to the walrus professors, if this fucking this underlines hmm or definately one more time i'm gonna fucking freak. why is i'm underlined? cause it isn't a capital I? fuck this system. fucking grammar fucking nazi fucking carpet fucker.

6:00 PM
Jesus. The benefit here is that the drunker I get the easier it is to take shots. I'm in respectable territory. 6yso shots. whoops. 60 shopts. FUCK. 60 shots. power hour accomplished. stomach doesn't feel good. lik a little gnome is digging a grave in there (i am not drunk enough to forget that gnome needs a g, unlike nome, alaska. not sure if that is right). Jill is getting a rum and coke now. Jessie is talking in Babylonian sanskrit.

Not sure what is happening here. Concentration is difficult.

On the ipod: Jurassic 5: What's golden.

Stomach hurts.

6:10 PM
discussion has turned to the golden anniversary, which john assures me is 75 shots. what are all of those? the diamond anniversary, golden, hairy beaver, etc. stomach is hurting,. not like in vomit level, but in like it feels like Seattle is sitting inside of it. All of seattle. the drunker i get the better chance i have. hey: fuck you!

Shit, for some reason i just looked at the clock, and it is only 5:56, not 6":10 what happened. Welcome 32!dr

6:20 PM
Drunk just happened. shot 71, but our recording has been off. stomach hurts. full, nauseus, everything. can't go much longer. we busted out the music, hope that helps. literally. at this very moment, right around the l of literally, i got drunk. i am fuly drunk. can't spell or think right. hurting. not sure i can take another.

Ok. I tap out. one more shot and i'll puke. my official count is 77. went past the power hour, beat lee, ACCOMPLISHED (whoops hit caps lock) accomplished my goal. i need a break now, cause hers's the rpbolem .if i keep going, i'll puke, for sure. so i need to assess why i'm doing this. puking, hit 100 or just call it a night. i am content with 77. that is my stomach's capacity. any more and it is dangerous.

on the ipod: Lynard Skynard, sweet home alabama.

Now that i have a break, i'm going back in. Second wind. Haven't puked yet.

6:18 PM

bakc in the game.

tapped out for four shots. the amount of beer cans is amazing. reminds me of stephen upstairs. taking a bunch of shots doesn't mean much. but when you see the cans you realize your accomoplishment.

amazing what you can do when you put your mind to it. usually that means one-legged people scaling mt. everest or women going to mars, but now it means mark anderson drinking 100 beers.

after a 3-minute break (no puking) i'm back in the game. on shot 80.

6:30 PM

i need someone other than jesus to say where i am right now. usually jesus is enough but not tongith. usually jesus is for before 80 shots. this is for past that. i need some new savior. like from the egyptians. Io. i think that is the god of the sun or something. so now, Io. Dear Io, I am hurting. Stomach is full beyond capacity. Literally, this is like putting a 27 inch cock into a woman. Just can't take anymore. That's what i'm doing, only i'm the woman. Some fat greasy hairy guy is sweating on top of me trying to stick it in. and more than anything i want him off. oh, there was a good burp, helped me. i might not do century club in 100 minutes, but i'll fucking do it you assholes. Dios Io!

6:50 PM - Guest blogger Jonh Graham, as I am unable to continue with my blog due to drunkennesss. I sjust ended 100 shots, and i don't think you will believe me, so i need esxplanation from John:

6:52 PM EST - Mark Andersin, despite "capacity" issues, is a right and true member of ther century club. WFU baby.

6:48 PM EST - Hi. Jessie Here. I have just witnessed Mark Anderson and John Graham become official members of this "Century Club" on September 22, 2007. One day before Mr. Anderson turns the ripe old age of 32. So Yeah, between the farts and burbs and dancing to tu pac and pep talks - they made it. If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to contact me. (p.s. I do believe this was worthy of my first "blog" entry ever.) And now I'll go back to watching John attempt to breakdance and fake hump everything. including the plant.

7:11 as in the store. Yes, tis true. Mark Anderson has taken 100 full one once shots of beer and John Graham has taken exactly 100 as well. Jessie May and I had 30 shots plus a rum and coke, so that said I am a reliable witness. Although I had doubts in my man he actually did it. I know right? I guess that steak and McDonalds twice this week prepared his stomach for the century clubith. Quite a kick-off to the 32nd year. Some of you have wives, some have babies. Mark has 100 shots. Amen. - JC

7:20 PM
Mark is back, wrecks in effects. Not sure what anyone posted, but i'm gonna submit it anyway. The official story is this, I hit 100, but took a three-shot break when I thought I might puke. I hope the above people have verified that.

I am 32.

I am 16.

Both make sense tonight.

As I sat in the bathroom stall this morning taking my scheduled morning poo, I was overwhelmed by the realization that I was only one person on one floor taking one poo in one building of over twenty-five floors. Crunching some numbers in my head (as I crunched some poo out of my butt), I was able to determine the following equation:

PPH x BR = DPR

In layman's terms, that is to say that the number of poos per hour, multiplied by the number of building residents equals the daily poo rate (with a plus/minus factor of one poo-unit). Plugging in some numbers, I was able to conclude that the DPR of our building alone was an astonishing 4,375 (I can't believe I actually just broke out a calculator to figure that one out). This is, of course, taking into account that some people do not take any poos during the average work day, whereas others will take multiple poos. Also, keep in mind that the DPR of 4,375 isn't an actual count of the number of poo-units, as few people only leave one single piece of poo in the toilet after an average defecation. At an average rate of 2.43 poos per visit, that puts the amount of poo generated by my building at an astonishing 10,631.25 poo-units.

So, 10,631.25 poo-units coming from one building on one average day. If you multiply it by the number buildings in Mahattan (which I refuse to do over total fear of the numbers), that is an absolutely staggering amount of feces for a single municipality to deal with. And when you take those numbers across weeks, months, and years ... It honestly overwhelms me. How can any government department deal with that? Once I flush it, where exactly does it end up? Is there a giant poo-eating dragon somewhere who lives underground? Do they burn it and use it to run the subways? Does it just accumulate in a giant hole and now there is a poo-continent the size of antarctica somewhere? I need to know these things.

By the time all this thinking was done, I was done with my poo. So I flushed the toilet, sending my poo off to the netherworld,. I went back to my job, feeling good that I had just given the poo people a new assignment.

It was an enjoyable experience this morning getting to watch a Serbian tourist on the subway studying a poster for "Dirty Sexy Money" on ABC, tracing routes with his finger, before someone informed him that it was an ad, not a subway map.