I never fully understood this phrase, considering I will eat just about anything that is deemed edible by an adult human when I am hungry enough. So what in the hell does that make me? The Gastro-Hulk?
This afternoon, I'll have to assume the moniker of 'Cat Shit.' Not because I ate cat shit today, (and I assure you I have never done so), but because I noticed the Power Bar given to me looked suspiciously like the thing that came out of my cat's butt this morning. And although my protein-infused chocolate delight was processed in resemblence of feline scat, I still consumed it without hesitation.
So, HELLO WORLD! I am Cat Shit.
It's not necessary to probe me regarding the emotional pitfalls of assigning oneself the Cat Shit nickname. It is glaringly obvious that I don't intend to damage myself for life, but probably already have since I've willingly posted this analysis on the internet. And let me tell you. If I'm taking myself down, somebody is going down with me.
That would be you, mom.
Yes! Mom! Remember that one time at the Long John Silver's in Pittsburgh when you, desperate to experience the voracity of a local, completely saturated your fries with malt vinegar? Only after the first bite did you proclaim loudly, "This tastes like DOUCHE! No, really it does. JUST LIKE DOUCHE, or something." Then you proceeded to eat the entire douchey basket of dripping wet douchey fries.
YOU ARE WHAT YOU EAT, MOM. And I will never let you forget that.
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