stuffed to the fuckin' gills

Slaughter me.

Charlie the KimcheeGI was in Seoul today, and was gracious enough to sign me onto the Yongsan base so I could indulge my hankering for Mexican puss-- uh, food.

So we did the all-you-can-eat Mexican buffet. Or maybe I should say overdid.

Perhaps it's all the Namsan hiking, but I came away from my four heaping platefuls of tacoeggrollfajitacakeicingcola feeling positively pregnant.

So we strolled around base a bit, hit a few different buildings, and then I left to go do my Namsan hike in the gray, rainy weather. It was definitely a hike of penitence, since I had eaten the equivalent of three five-year-olds. I know for a fact that, either tonight or tomorrow morning, my asshole's going to be vomiting something fierce. I'm expecting an avalanche of buttsnot.

Come to think of it, I might just have to do a turdblog one of these days. A turdblog is, after all, the logical extension of foodblogging, isn't it? Just a later stage in the cosmic process, right?

The only thing I fear, though, is that someone at Smoo is going to walk up to my desk in the office, thrust a printout of my turdblog in my face, and scream, "What is the meaning of this!?"

Fuck it. Maybe I'll take a pic of a nice, healthy Kevin-turd, then run it through Photoshop and give it psychedelic colors, or turn it into an Andy Warhol parody. "Ten Turdies" instead of "Ten Lizzes." Lemme think about this for a bit. I mean, showing off your turd is only a camera-swivel away from showing the world your asshole, and I'm not ready to acquaint you with my hemmorhoids. Remember: a turd is a negative image of your asshole. You can guess the asshole's shape by looking at the turd. And if you saw my turd, you'd do more than divine my asshole's shape-- you'd hear the voice of Jacob Marley:

Again the spectre raised a cry, and shook its turd, and wrung its shadowy hands.

"You are fettered," said Scrooge, trembling. "Tell me why?"

"I wear the turd I forged in life," replied the Ghost. "I made it chunk by chunk, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?"

Scrooge trembled more and more.

"Or would you know," pursued the Ghost, "the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this, seven Christmas Eves ago. You have laboured on it, since. It is a ponderous turd!"



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