A bag of trail mix, an iPod and a statuette of Guanyin, the Chinese goddess of mercy.

- things recovered from under my ass when I inadvertently reposed upon them in a car-seat, prompting the question "What the feck am I sitting on?"

Who else do you know who would be able to make that statement? That's right: nobody.

Today: A few random thoughts by Domonic.


1) "... like a banshee."

OK folks, let's just lay it out really plainly and simply. The banshee (beansidhe -Gaelic, "woman fairy") - a creature of Irish folktale - wails over the desolate, rain-sodden countryside, bespeaking of impeding mortality for s/he who hears it. As a harbinger of imminent death, the banshee was spoken of only in euphemism -hence "woman fairy"- if the need arose to discuss them.

Now: The one thing - THE ONE THING - that distinguishes the banshee from the thousands of other nature sprites is that SHE FECKING WAILS AND THEN YOU DIE. That's her one thing - her "bag", if you will. What this means is this: one cannot "run like a banshee." One cannot "eat a pound of raw hamburger like a banshee." The wind does not "blow like a banshee."

There. Is. Only. One. Thing. Banshees. Do.

Goddamnit, they wail.

Therefore, the ONLY correct usage for the descriptor "... like a banshee" is when speaking of something/someone that is crying, weeping, wailing, or moaning. For all of you who insist on using it for something else - and you all know who you are - I hope your mouths become filled with hot, liquidy hobo-squatting-between-two-parked-cars diarrhea.

Speaking of which...

2) Dignity Pants: A Necessary Evil?

As you all are abundantly aware, I am particular when selecting a locale should the need to evacuate become prescient. In situations where I am ambushed by, say, a lathe-your-tongue-over-the-lake-of-grease pizza or profoundly poorly crafted Chinese food, I am not able to be as selective: countless have been the times when a dimly-lit copse of bushes seemed promising were it not for the vague threat of a closeted smoker intruding upon me in that, one's most natural state.

Now: I work on the third floor of Franklin Hall which, for those of you unfamiliar with Indiana University geography, is an enormous limestone former library building brooding at the terminus of Indiana University property, where the school disgorges itself upon hapless Bloomington and the wanton debauchery of Gomorrah {Kirkwood} Avenue. Franklin Hall houses a great many student services, such as the Bursar, Registrar, Overseas Study, and arguably most importantly, the Largish Plastic Fishbowl Containing Nearly Expired, Gaily Colored Lubricated Condoms. In the belfry of Franklin Hall, the Office of International Services is itself served by two "satellite offices", one for each gender, near the stairwell.

Let's get to the point, shall we? These bathrooms are so profoundly disgusting that I have, in all seriousness, thrown up in my own tender mouth twice.

How could a set of bathrooms that are used primarily by upstanding professional staffpeople (like myself - itself a dark thought) be so ghastly? The stark and simple truth is this: the bathrooms were designed without ventilation. That's right. There is no fan. There is no window. In short, there is no hope tha, at any given point in the day, the tiny bathroom is not going to smell like the twenty dukes which had been extruded previous to your arrival. This problem has become so pronounced in the men's room that one of the 'borgs - ONE OF THE 'BORGS! - bought some "Fresh Linen" Glade spray and scrawled "Do Not Take: Keep in the Bathroom" with a Sharpie over the festive picture of sheets on a clothesline under a bright mid-July sun.
Of course, it was stolen in mere nanoseconds, dooming the rest of us to a fate of breathing out of our mouths for all eternity. I'd thought we'd had it the worst over in Boyland, but one day Alert Life in the Corn Devotee Gwyneth breezed past my office and poked her head in. She was the color of an improperly-treated wound's effluent.

"Going in the third-floor women's room is like walking into a birth canal", she gasped, barely keeping her Healthy Choice lunch at bay.

It was at that moment that I realized that my own misgivings about the men's "satellite office" paled as compared to what surely awaited someone possessed of two X chromosomes. As I pressed her for the details of the forbidden world she was privy to, I became firmly convinced that, without a doubt, the third-floor women's bathroom in Franklin Hall is the portal to Hell itself.

But, at least nobody steals their airspray.

The simple solution is this: dignity pants. The cons are many: you spend an afternoon stewing your delicate underside with your own waste, which may at any point become visible or smelly. It's a good way to ruin a good pair of slacks. It is socially unacceptable unless you have a medical condition or have age-related incontinence. But, think of this: never again would you have to supress your gag reflex to pee or blow your nose or wash your hands! I think that it is worth it, no?

***

It's Sunday night, and the upcoming week yawns ahead of me like a freshly-dug grave. The only light from the abyss is the knowledge that, with the zippy internet connection I've purchased for one of my very own loins, I will be able to 'blog with alarming frequency should I be inspired to do so. And, speaking of "inspiration", I'd like to propose something to you fancy folks.

* Each one of you who reads this 'blog - if you know me! - responds to this post with a quick reminder of the stupidest, lamest or most idiotic thing that you know I have done. It will be part of an ongoing series entitled "Dom is a Pretty Much a Developmentally-Challenged Chimp" -and, depending on how many responses I get, this could be 'blog-fodder for weeks.*

Let's see where this goes!

Until then, I remain,

Domonic