Now I'll Never be a Teen Model!!

Skadoosh.

I've been doing a lot of thinking lately (NOT drinking, although drinking can be fun and good for what ails ya, unless life is what ails ya, and then you might be an alcoholic and then more's the pity and so forth and et cetera.), and I have come to the conclusion that I may be the reincarnation of Andy Rooney, even though I'm pretty sure he's not dead.... Yet.

Don't worry. I'm not going to kill Andy Rooney. But I've had my eye on Jimmy Kimmel for years. He's going down, going down like a sweet muffin.

So anyway, yeah. Andy Rooney. Reincarnation. Granted, I don't have bushy eyebrows and a profoundly nasal voice that is hitherto unprecedented. But I DO have a lazy eyelid and a goofy laugh. BOO-YAH! So the proof is in the pudding, whatever the stinking hell THAT means.

Here's the thing: I don't really trust gummy bears. No matter how much you chew them, they never really start to break down. You can only scissor them into smaller chewy bits, smaller versions of themselves, if you will. Then swallow very carefully so as to avoid choking. Nobody wants gummy bear bits getting into their lungs. Instant death, or so they tell me.

But with most other foods, you can feel them start to break down as soon as they mix with a decent amount of saliva. No amount of spit can break down a gummy bear. I'm convinced that after the end of the world, after the nuclear holocaust, all that will be left are cockroaches, spider plants, Mimi from The Drew Carey Show, and TONS of Haribo gummy bears.

I eat a lot of gummy bears (only Haribo gummy bears will do) and I'm convinced that they're building up in my colon somewhere. I just know that as soon as I turn 50, when it's time for all god's chillun' to have their preemptive colonoscopy, that they're going to find a lifetime's worth of masticated gummy bear bits nesting within my.....*gulp* .... murky tract.

And by that time, I'm sure that pile of gelatinous nastiness will have become sentient. It'll be like that episode of "Futurama" where Fry eats the egg salad sandwich from the vending machine and ends up with sentient parasites that fix all his neurons and make him more intelligent. Except my sentient gummy bear colon mass will just make me all bloated and irritable and cantankerous. So in actuality, I'll be exactly the same at 50 as I am now at 26. WOOT! Or maybe they’ll develop into a second brain – a Bum Brain, just like dinosaurs!

I'll have sentient colon cancer (aka A Bum Brain) and the world's worst case of TMJ from eating too many Haribo gummy bears. I'll be a whole medical case study AND a study in evolution, what with my new bum brain and all. My retirement is going to be so cool!


Yours with everlasting fervent admiration bordering on sinister obsession,
The Cage.