Bob TV is the place to sit and watch me entertain you...to tap dance my way into your hearts and blog subscription list. But what about me? Is the monkey supposed to bang the cymbals and dance around the room while you idly chit-chat about something else? Yes, sadly. But now that The Haven has come into being, my Haven-esque visitors are glancing over into the rest of my pysche. And once they see this, they'll never drink the coffee again.
So let's chat about a comfortable, sane topic. Office farts.
Yup, we all know what it is, and most of us have experienced it. Most of my coworkers are experiencing it tonight, thanks to either a stomach bug or a colon backed up like the Jersey turnpike after a Gaga concert. But why? Why can't we control a base bodily function, like burping? It's a terrible lack of control. I'm not proud of leaving a vapor trail in the kitchen for the next unlucky sap to walk into (apologies to the secretary, hope therapy goes well).
Actually, secretly I am proud. As I should be. I look forward to watching my boss walk in my office and say, "Hey Bob we need you to wor....omg what the hell is that?" I blame it on either the last person in the office or my officemate's desk. But in reality? It's my chair. Yes, my soft, supple, cushiony office chair of goodness is also an odorous sponge of nasty. I can walk into my office after airing out the pants in a neighbor's cubicle, sit down in my chair, and the cushion releases a lovely aroma of baby diapers and hot sick. Yup, that's disgusting. And uncannily accurate.
I need to invent an office chair with a charcoal filter. Instead of ergonomics, it will cater to odorifics, like me and my hiney. Then, like the pigeon-releaser at an overpriced wedding, I can "let 'er fly" with no worries of ill effects like people passing out or birds crapping on the bride. I can comfortably smile at ease, instead of looking like a pent-up Puritanical prude most of the time. Well, not really. Most of the time I'm smiling, walking around the office, banging cymbals together.