The lowest form of humor. |
I consider bathroom humor the lowest form of humor. When I hear it, my face becomes flushed. I cringe, I pose like a broken sentence, vowels askew, consonants unkempt, words like guacamole. It remains standard fare, however, this comedy ala commode, in sophomoric movies, in some television offerings blundered by purveyors of such schmuck. A one, and a two, procurers of disjunctive digestion in catacombs. It is there, a miasma of inauspicious spoil, and I remain in couch potato sloth to surf, thumbing remote like some Neanderthal hunter; so many channels appear and whiz on by like golden flow, streams extant as if spring sings, as if all dumps are free of flies and I espy the residue. Yea, I am privy to said stuff, brash blunt fill, bulk murk in bagpipe, this lumpy puncture rubble. Sought for giggles by way of bidet, the narrowness of outhouse laugh, regurgitation of repast makes not for snicker symphony, nor guffaws clanging chamber pots...no, not for me--perhaps for John, (Oh John, my John), come marching home and seek the comfort station here, a Tara Mansion elegant as wee wee drollery drifts with the wind. 33 Lines Writer’s Cramp 3-25-16 |