My meditation in the morning was a bit disruptive. I was distracted, unable to concentrate all my thought forces on the here and now. But as I was shitting milkshakes, I decided to focus today's meditation on my gastro-internal system.

I don't recommend drinking three cups of gas station coffee and eating a fiber-filled apple before a meeting with your boss. First of all, I had to sit in my boss's office, right square in front of him with that stupid grin on my face because I was holding back farts.

There is nothing more annoying than having the urge to release air from your butthole, but because you're not in the right setting, you have to use your intestinal muscles to push the fart back up in you.

Plus fiber-filled apples and gas station coffee make your shit run like southern oatmeal. You'll shit out an entire cowpie without even realizing it. And your butthole will sting and stink and will be left usually large and contaminated.

Holy gastro-internal, the worst feeling was dumping in the company toilet bowl and having the shit-contaminated water splash back up and touch my asshole. Ewwww. Makes me shudder just thinking about it.

I don't know which thought is worse: that of a starving Jew from Nazi Germany or the thought of shit-contaminated toilet water sprinkling my asshole like a spring shower.

And that coffee and fiber-filled apple didn't stop there.

As I was riding the elevator down to leave the building, I made the mistake of relaxing and letting the air out of my butthole. Just then, the elevator stopped on the third floor and two people got on.

NEVER FART IN AN ELEVATOR! People know. They will realize what you have done and will not forgive you. No one spoke during that three story ride down to the first floor, which seemed to last a lifetime.

After work, I took my stank-ass to HOOTERS to flirt with my friend Ruth. She slips me free beers at the bar and I drink and listen to the stories of how much cum she swallowed at school this week.

After about nine or 10 beers, my undoing revealed itself. Beer was the final ingredient for the disaster that awaited me. I spent an hour on the shitter at HOOTERS. Ruth thinks I was in there jerking off, but I just kept pooping.

I would shit a milkshake, then get up to wipe, then the urge to shit again would return. I did this eight times before it was over and in the end, I had a sore asshole.

Eat wisely my friends, stock up on plenty of t.p. for your bunghole, never kiss HOOTERS girls on the mouth, and never let them tell you when or where you can or cannot fart....