I had time off earlier this year and while I was off I became constipated. I now know that it was constipation rather than the ruptured hernia and prostate cancer that all my thoughtful mates suggested. I thought it was a hernia too, I had been lifting loads of stuff before we moved into the new house and it seemed logical that my once mighty torso would be damaged from sudden heavy lifting. Yeah you heard me, mighty torso. All oiled up and bronzed and all it was.

I was convinced my stomach was hanging out of my daddy bag or whatever. Then after some online diagnosis I reasoned it was constipation. My diet consists of Maltana bread and snots so it's never really a surprise when I get dietary deficiencies, can't even spell it, too much iceicei going on there.I needed laxatives.

I've never tasted prune juice and have heard stories about it's power. In my then local Spar, they always had prune juice in the juice section. I've never seen it in a shop of that size and it was always in stock so somebody must be buying it. I went up to buy some and I chickened out!
What a fag! It's not as if it's tampons or lube. I bought some Maltana and left. On walking out I saw the standard group of lads 14-16 that hang around every shop asking people for smokes or to buy cans for them in the Spar.

Aha! A solution of Larry Davidian proportions: I could go in and buy the kids some beer if they done me a favour in return, go in and buy me some black gold; some prune juice. It didn't happen and I walked home while I tried to figure out how to make a silent 8 panel comic from the idea. At home I tried crapping and wished I bought the prune juice like a man.

Next day I bought laxatives. No joy. No poo. The day after I went in and asked for the heavy duty stuff, the liquid medicine type one. I of course pretended to ring Hayley when the pharmacist quizzed me, trying to make out like she sent me to the shops. The pharmacist says in a hushed tone, "Well if she's really desperate, there's these" as he showed me a shotgun round. "Suppositries". Nah, fuck that, I may be crippled with poo but I'm not sticking a dissolving fizzle stick in Dirt Lane. I got the liquid and skulled twice the dosage, no joy.

Over the next few days a small bit came out but I still didn't feel right. Soon I was back in work and back to my routine and my bowel movements returned to normal.

I couldn't figure what it was. Only when somebody asked me for a chewing gum did I cop it. I mill down at least one pack of Wrigley's Extra every weekday, since I 'gave up smoking' wink wink I've come to depend on them to stop me from getting up from my desk and wasting an hour downstairs. Sure enough, it says on the back of of the pack 'Excessive consumption may cause laxative effect'

My digestive system now depends on Wrigley's Extra to shit. By not chewing them for a few days my bowels just refused to work. What will happen if I cut out the Maltana?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Nothin to say to you. Here's the best comedy clip ever

------------------------------------------------------------------------

UPDATE:
Hurk (Who is working on a pure gem of a comic just told me about this. Solid gold.

Ahhh, what's that shitty feeling and smell? It's me back in work. God I love my job. It's just fab.

This morning I couldn't remember what time I had to leave the house at or what time bus I got. Still not used to my new route to work. Moving house throws up so many new things and upsets the old ones that it’ll take months before a comfortable rut develops. Getting a new bus in the mornings is so weird. I ‘ve been getting the same one, the 56A, every morning for 5 years and the sudden change is unsettling. Now I have time to warrant reading a book which is good but the first thing that I’m feeling is not being familiar with my fellow bus losers.

Not that I’ve ever talked to any of them or cared about their dealings. These same scruds I'd see every fucking morning. I used them all as chronometers, if I saw the fat woman with the permanent umbrella walking across the field I’d know I was late so I could immeadiately turn around and grab the Luas. Or if the bitter old lad with the penchant for gaudy tracksuits was at my stop it meant the other bus hadn’t come down yet.

When I’d be walking to my stop in the mornings there used to be certain events that’d play with Groundhogular clockwock. Mrs. clutched pink night gown opening her window, some lazy bastards alarm clock going off, the breakfast televison in the same houses and cars pulling out. But there used be one that I’d look forward to. There’d be this car slowly reversing as the driver happily waved big exaggerated flaps at this little boy around 5 standing on his bedroom window sill, pressed against the window. Waving with the same energy and enthusiasm every morning, dark or bright. It really cheered me up, if I was in his line of sight and the car had gone, he'd give me a good wave too.

But one day the kid just stopped waving. It puzzled me, the car would still reverse slowly as if he was expecting to see the kid too. Dozens of reasons have been considered, maybe this thing was just between father and son and the ma went nuts to find he was allowing the boy to stand on the window sill, maybe they moved his room, maybe he just had a new cartoon and knew where his priorities lay or maybe something bad happened. Whatever it was, it puzzled and depressed the shit out of me. I really hope it was something lame like wanting to watch Spongebob.

Dumping on whatever sensitivity I just lay, my second thing is the lack of fanny at the new stop. Man, that 56A and the bumpy journey to work produced many a bus horn. The demographics of the average 56A are stacked much more favourably than the other buses running in Tallaght, prim secretarial types and mature leg. I even had this imaginary romance going for a while because this girl would always sit beside me, even when there were a few double empties, she'd choose to sit beside me. Probably had a bad hip or something and needed that seat or was just so conditioned that me = sit down. Or it could have been my subliminal gestures such as moving my school bag off the seat everytime she got on. She used to read good books and more than once I’d lay mine face up on my knees for a sec so she’d see what I was reading and see how smart I am. Maybe she’s thinking ‘What happened to that greasy sap I used to sit beside everyday?’.

But that's the thing, just as I have nick names and mad ideas about the same sad geebags, they obviously have ones for me. For all of us. Forever and ever.Amen.

(there's something fucked with the site so no amusing pictures till we figure it out)
-------------------------------------------------------------------