A friend told me that I was his personal Gandhi because I changed his life for the better by introducing him to the defecating method which I refer to as: The Shitting Nest.
You lace the seat of the toilet with quilted toilet paper (for sturdiness, though it also adds comfort) and then proceed to crouch atop the seat as if you were a hen laying an egg. Not only does this help one’s body propel the poo out more easily (or so I read somewhere), but the act of crouching naturally seperates one’s cheeks and opens the arsehole, thus allowing for a much deeper clean - as well as providing easier access to the penis. When peeing, I often pretend I’m a fireman with my penis acting as a hose.
“There’s a fire at 31 King Street!” radios the operator.
“Truck 501 checking into command, we’re in the area - we got this“
I then wrap my hand around my penis and proceed to extinguish the fire, complete with sound effects.
Being serious for a moment, not only is the shitting nest a viable solution to a cleaner, shinier arsehole - it also provides a unique perspective on the act of emptying one’s bladder. As the urine gushes out majestically - one can but marvel at the sheer beauty and intricacy of the human body. What cogs and wheels must turn for our body to achieve this remarkable feat. The minute it takes for the bladder to empty, with nothing but the sound of urine trinkling, is also a welcome reprieve from the noise and hecticity of everyday life.
P.S. When crouched atop the seat, you can also extend your arms fully and recreate the famous scene from The Titanic in your own bathroom. Take in a netbook with Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On and, baby, you’ve got a full-blown Hollywood reenactment going. You could even pretend to be an eagle… or a plane if you wish, your call. Eagles are badass motherfuckers, though.
So you know how Loki changes his clothes by ~shimmering~ in the Avengers
What if he’s not actually wearing anything
What if his clothes are just an illusion
There was a time, long ago, in a world not unlike our own, where a writer would produce a manuscript after many laborious hours spent hunched over a typewriter of such heft and weight it could easily be used to bludgeon a burglar to death. Writers would not bash ne’er-do-wells’ heads in, of course, for multiple reasons, chief among them being that writers have nothing of value to burgle so the situation rarely arose (but also because those barely-movable metal contraptions were precious to them, strange alchemical chambers where sweat and little drops of whiskey and the smoke from a thousand cigarettes entered, and beautifully amateurish fiction emerged. This did not make typewriters expensive or burgle-worthy, just neat).
And after that, I succumb to shallow vanity again. I can’t help it, man can walk.
(via fuckyeahtomhiddleston)
This is personal stuff and bad jokes and wedding updates and free (great) music, not yammering lemurs in capslock, so skip it if you’re not interested in that sort of thing.
It goes to show that some of the best humour writers have big hearts and talents. And, excuse the cheese and onslaught of weirdly mixed metaphors, but this snapshot into one man’s life makes me believe in the beauty of humanity.
Jesus, where was that mixed metaphor? I’m bad at keeping my promises.
I haven’t torn my eyes off the loop, yet (except to post this, but the images are burned into the back of my retinas anyway).
First Tom Felton, now Tom(!) Hiddleston.
Conclusion: I like my men with high foreheads. Fucking Yum*
*That part was a joke, I swear it.
(Source: ihearthiddles, via gingerhaze)
