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Tom Gordon's Blother

February 7, 2006

Dare To Be Gutless
Whoops! Back to the horribly mundane realm of mind-numbingly boring kvetching once again!

Ugh... my marglefargin' stomach. Every day I wake up and it's writhing like a cobra on meth. The censored unprintable thing's been giving me nothing but great unwanted heaps o'trouble ever since Dad died. Oh, I've already consulted superspecialized gastro-wrangling medicos, who've gleefully run me through with all sorts of expensive state-of-the-art equipment (though I missed out on gargling the swallowable camera -- drat) and they ultimately came up with a Big Fat Zero. Deep sigh. More likely than not it's probably all psychysoma... psychasoom... uh, in my head. But for Cthulhu's overly tentacled sake, I've been through FAR more stressful periods in my life, while devouring the worst food humanly imaginable -- you got ramen in my Hot Pockets! -- and agonizing nonsense like this never occured before.

Or maybe -- just maybe -- I'm just getting old. (Blasphemy!)

One thing's for sure. When the Singularity hits (it has to, it JUST has to! the fool proclaimed in blind, religious fervor), I'll gladly upload the choicier parts of my worthless brainpan to the hungry eschaton, in exchange for some good food-processing nanobots to replace the faulty gullet inflicted upon me by that syphilitic whore, Mother Nature.

And then maybe I'll tear out the toilet from the bathroom, and extend the bathtub into a vague photo-developing trough! While grossly belching away like a Burping Construction Set! Yay, futuretech!
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