Two Syllable Flatulence

I was reading several other blogs this morning whose proprietors  bragged about earning money through their blog.  An attorney guy and his wife quit their day jobs to stay home to blog and make a living that way.  Believe it or not they're making more off the blog than they were from their day jobs.  Hard to believe but true.  Making blog money is all about the ads and the number of clicks on the blog which in turn generate income.  Like hundreds visit certain popular blogs every day and which generate a lot of cash.

Frankly, if I had to depend on making a living through this rinky dink rag if a blog there wouldn't be enough income to put a can of beer and a bucket of chicken wings on the table once a year.  Ever.

That's because this place generates few visitors as I post stupid, juvenile shit that pleases only me.  But for you who are here every day, thank yew, thank yew, thank yew ever so much.  I love an audience. 

Posting naked Wifey photos and elaborating on our monkey sex love life would draw visitors by the thousands.  I'd win the AARP Nobel Douche Bag Blogger Prize.  The bank account would grow by thousands every week. 

If I changed up here the blog would be so very great and popular that Wifey and I would be regular guests on Dr. Phil, Oprah, George Lopez (on TBS Mon-Fri nights at 8 ...he's soooo funny!), Rush Limbaugh (speaking to the rednecked, far right side of sex), IMUS in the Mornings, 60 Minutes.....you name it, we'd be there.

But no, oh no, I've got to write other things, keep the sex life and photos of Wifey out of here, and concentrate on what's important to me:  Juvenile thinking.  Besides, I'd only live a day, maybe two after Wifey found that I was posting butt ass nekked photos of her.  She's a good shot and it would be right between Bob's eyes.  Bang.

Here's a good example of juvenile thinking creates juvenile actions that translates into juvenile posts.

Shopping at Rite Aid yesterday for a new razor (damn!  they're 10 bucks or more), shampoo, floss and toothpaste.  On comes the song, Gypsy Woman.  The Impressions were first to sing the song making it popular and then came a lot of other versions.

Right before the song played it did feel like there was a lot of gas in me...that full feeling... all due to a wonderful dinner last evening that came with a side of beans, salad with beans, and soup with beans.  Add a couple of beers to the menu and by golly it's a case of , "Houston, We Have Ignition".  BLASTOFF!

As I shopped and the more that I shopped right there in the middle of Rite Aid I knew something had to give.  What goes up must come down?  Well,  what goes in Bob has to come out sooner or later and one way or another.

So then I'm listening to the song playing, Gypsy Woman.  The light bulb goes on.  I'll toot along with the music.  I'll bop down the aisles.  It will make me feel so much better.

When the time came for the chorus, She was a Gypsy Woman, I'll sing She was a Gypsy and then toot woman. 

It went like this:  She was a Gypsy Toot Toot, A Gypsy Toot Toot.

I tried, She was a Toot-toot Toot-Toot but there wasn't enough steam for two, two syllable words in a row.

Man, that was fun (doesn't take a lot to float my boat).  I was definitely good, even professional sounding at two syllable flatulent tooting to the music. 

Next time I'll have to try three syllable tooting to the music, like that song from Westside Story, Maria.  "Toot-toot-toot, I just met a girl named Toot-toot-toot!  Three syllable tooting would be an accomplishment requiring lots of beans, chicken wings, sausages and gallons of beer the night before. 

It was fortunate that Rite Aid was nearly empty for the sight of a card carrying AARP member happily pushing a cart down the aisles a dancing, a singing and a tooting would have created a cry for MANAGER!  MANAGER!  CODE 50 IN THE TOOTHPASTE AISLE!!!  MANAGER!!!

When the manager came to glare at me I'd still be singing, Gypsy Toot Toot, she was a Gypsy Toot Toot.  Sir, would you like to toot-too along with me?

All said, it was a fun way to get rid of that awful full feeling of too many beans and way too much gas to contend.  Sure, I could have hit the toilet but where's the fun in that? 

I have to say, shopping and tooting is one hell of a lot of fun.  I can hardly wait until the next bean laden meal and discovering there's a necessity to shop at Rite Aid.

I'd like Wifey to come check out this master piece, "Ohhh Toot Toot?  Toot, Toot?"

Wifey:  "Bob, quiting farting.  What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Indeed, a juvenile mind is a terrible thing to waste.