Who let the dogs out...

It’s cold again. I tell you the weather’s gone menopausal. 60 two days ago, and now it’s 25.

That bloody runny nose keeps hogging up the services of the hand.

That nose is always running, nothing to do with the weather.

Well if you guys ever listened to me, it will be fixed in a minute.

Oh not you, self styled doctor. Quit doling out prescriptions you unlicensed quack.

Oh, so you think those hospital guys know this body better than I do just because they wear suits.

No, it’s a thing called a medical degree and scientific analysis.

Oh big fat they know. If we had taken the Dichloro-Diphenyl-Trichloroethane like I had suggested, that nose would have been fine. Up and running in no time.

Dichloro-Diphenyl-Trichloroethane, huh, that sounds familiar.

It’s technical, you illiterate. You wouldn’t know. Just do as I tell you.

Isn’t the problem that it already is up and running.

I tell you, if the damned legs ran as much as that nose, we would been twice around the Earth and well on our way to Moon.

Feet: Hey, may be the “damned” legs would run, if they weren’t so blood deprived and cold.

Didn’t you hear, its winter. Everybody is cold.

Hey dumb schmuck, I am always cold and it’s because I have no blood.

Brain: Quit complaining, you got even gravity helping you out with the flow. I am the one who is shrinking.

Feet: Gravity myself, the damned fatso in the middle keeps adding layers upon himself and hogging all the blood.

Gut: hey, there is reason I store it. It’s for the lean periods you know.

It’s not 1 million BC. Humans are at the top of the food chain you idiot. There is food even before you need it. Quit storing already.

One million BC! Oh man, Raquel Welch. Now she had some nice way of storing reserves…

Audrey Hepburn fan: Disproportionate if you ask me.

Oh quit, you ribcage lover.

All this talk of food reminds of dogs.

The what?

Dogs.

Jesus, we don’t even eat meat. And for crying out loud, dogs? We love dogs.

Who let the dogs out…Who let the dogs out…Who let the dogs out…

Oh for crying out loud. Shut up. We have guy here turning meat eater and that too Chinese!

Hang on I never said anything about us eating dogs. I was just thinking about food, and so then meat and so then people attitude towards eating meat.

Boy, can you jump contexts!

I was thinking about that whole Michael Vick episode.

FOOTBALL. I need FOOTBALL. Have you got any, Huh, have you any. May be he has some.

Get out of here you addict or we will cut off even the recruiting news. What about Michael Vick? Was he eating them too? God!

No. At least I don’t know. I was thinking about all the fuss. I mean which one would shock you more, a cannibal or a man who killed other for profit. I mean sure people killing others creates some waves, but not like cannibals. So why should, a man killing dogs for money cause so much problem? I mean people are killing animals and eating them by the billions, actually relishing it, and this guy gets crucified. Don’t you see what I am trying to say…

Hey newbie, can you come this way, urgent.

Sorry, I need to go… ya, what did you want.

I was trying to save to from irrelevant there. Hope you learnt your lesson to stay away from them.

Ya, thanks. I am learning.

So, meet Brett Farve.

Oh wow, great to meet you sir.

He hopped on when we were reading that retirement story...

Which one, there were so many.

You know the one with the little girl becoming part of the family…

Ah, the one in which you enjoyed the tenderloin of an Ostrich. How was it, I didn’t know they ate that.

Oh delicious man. Don’t remind me, it just makes me feel hungry.

After all, what is the truth?

Romantic: Remember the drive last Sunday…

Skin: Oh you telling me:

When the sun hits the skin

Like a big pizza pie

Ah! That’s zamunda…

Gut: Don’t even remind me. The drives are just killing me. Who gave this monkey brain a license. Can’t anybody do something about the eye-hand-leg coordination. The automatic was bad enough, the stick shift is just killing me.

Oh quit complaining. Here I am trying to remember a beautiful scene and you are ruining it. This place, it had houses with a small board next to mail box and scribbled on it with paint: Just a cottage, and oh, then there was this farm. Listen to this: Three reasons farm. There were these kids on the grass by the side of the road. One of the kids, he was just playing by himself on some wooden logs, short ones. The sun was streaming through the clouds on them. The other kid was just sleeping, enjoying it. It was just so… idyllic

Factual: There was no sun streaming through the clouds near the kids. It was there in other places and times, presumably beautiful, but not there.

Why do you always have to do that to me. You and your damn facts. Can’t you let me enjoy anything.

But it’s about facts and truth…

In another corner

Is it 5… AM?

Ya, someone changed the sleep cycle. Remember we slept early yesterday. I have been up since 4.30.

But still 4.30!! Seems like the typist is also up.

Ya, the whole new blogging enthusiasm.

Who is this?

Oh, he is a transitory.

Huh. When did you hop on?

Huh?

He came aboard when we were reading up on Macbeth. Macbeth himself…

Oh Royalty. Nice to make your acquaintance sir. So were it done and when 'tis done, then 'twere well?

Nice to meet you too. But I don’t quite follow you?

Shouldn’t he be speaking in Shakespearean English or something.

Well the language rules for transits are complicated, depending on how and when he hopped etc. Also, he is the Scottish original, so won’t understand any Shakespearean references.

Ah the Original himself eh? What’s all that ruckus on the other side?

Oh the Irrelevants are at it again. You know, nature of truth blah blah blah.

Who are the irrelevants?

Well sir, we got those two, the romantic and the factual, then there are technical, scientific, the analytic, logician, the philosopher, the psychologist, poet, writer and bunch of others. Frankly, irrelevant.

Who else is there?

Well then you got us, the Randoms. Too many to list and are interchangeable. There are a few other, but mostly these two kinds.

But see I think the factual is fighting a losing battle. Black and white, it’s just one bit. Grey just takes a lot of memory. In the long run, you will just end up with strongly bad or strongly good truth. You can’t remember all the subtleties. So we mix all the good into one big good…

Who are they?

They are some amalgamation of the analytic-logician-scientific, I can never tell them apart.

Who are you?

We are some amalgamation of analytic-logician-scientific, we can never tell us apart.

Why don’t we spare His Highness these irrelevants and get him some useful stuff on truth and things.

Macbeth, meet George Costanza, James Hacker, Sir Humphrey Appleby. They belong to the luminaries, those that have been invited to hop on permanently. This is Macbeth the original.

Sir Humphery: What do you mean the original?

See Sir Humphery is from Cambridge or Oxford. Very Loyal to Shakespeare. Anyway, we were hoping that you can enlighten His Highness on the nature of truth and so forth.

George: Jerry if you believe in it, it’s not a lie.

Hacker: Is it the truth

Sir Humphery: Yes.

Hacker: Is it nothing but the truth?

Sir Humphery: Yes, of course.

Hacker: Is it the complete truth?

Of course not.

There you go. Now you know all there is about truth. Let’s get some breakfast.

John Doe's Art

Alright then let’s get this rolling. Where are the writer and the egotist.

Is that exhibitionist or egotist.

Frankly, they are the same.

Exhibitionist: That it. Imagine how many people could be reading this. A hundred, no a thousand, may be tens of thousands, oh imagine a million, millions. Ya that’s it baby,show me what you got.

Writer: Ok, ok, here is the piece I wanted to. It is about the toilet graffiti.

I beg your pardon what!!??

Toilet graffiti.

I HEARD you. Didn’t you hear, millions are reading this and this is what you come up with for the grand opening.

Millions? I doubt that. Let’s not get our hopes up.

Is there even one?

After toilet, we sure won’t have to worry even about that.

It’s not about toilet, it’s about graffiti.

I can’t believe that’s the best this guy has. Why Lord why?

We don’t believe in God.

Oh gimme a break. We are about to get flushed and he is worried about His stature.

But why toilets?

Yes, pray why.

Well we do spend so much time in there…

It’s really about graffiti people, and it is actually more about socio-cultural landscape and some insights…

Did he just say socio-cultural landscape?

He is a writer. He feels he has to use big words. Pardon him for he knows not what he says.

Alright people, settle down. I said I will give him some priority. What’s this thing about the toilets anyways.

Can’t we at least call them bathrooms or restrooms or powder room or something else.

Did somebody just say powder room!

How does it matter. Soon people will feel uncomfortable saying any word in public and we will have to coin a new word.

I heard there is no graffiti in the women’s toilets.

Thank goodness, no blog titled Powder Room Graffiti. That’s it: John Doe’s art. Get it! John as in toilet, well, loo, restroom, bathroom, whatever the hell you call it, and John Doe as in anonymous, which is what the people here are.

Alright, we got it. Let’s get moving.

Well this is why I want to write about it. People do not appreciate toilet graffiti. I believe it is one of the truly honest art forms there is. What is that drives a person, sitting on the throne, busy with his abulations…

occipital lobe: too graphic, pleasant images immediately please

occipital shut up

Giggling heard. Ha ha occipital lobe

Right big toe what so funny?

occipital lobe, it’s a little funny. Medulla Oblongata

Huh?

It’s also in the brain and I find it also funny. Medulla Oblongata, Medulla Oblongata.

Longer toe: Is it part of the brain or the spinal cord?

I think it’s the end of the brain or the beginning of the spinal cord or something. Who cares, they are all the same up north.

Leftie, stomp the bloody loonies shut.

Ouch not so hard damn it.

Writer has been murmuring— I can’t write like this over and over all this time.

Alright get on with it then.

I just can’t write like this. Have you guys heard of a concept called focus.

Photographer: Oh ya, Nikon does a pretty good job. I heard canon is not so good.

SHUT UP, JUST SHUT UP all of you. I just want to write.

Ok diva, calm down. Let’s hear what profound stuff you have to say.

Alright this is just too eerily silent now. Just keep up some normal chatter.

No, no we want to hear you.

Like I was saying, the anonymity and the simplicity of the purpose strips him of the layers he hides behind (whispers: pun intended?; let’s hope its metaphorically speaking). It brings forth an honesty rarely seen in the crass commercial outside world. What would possess a man to scribble, “ I hate niggers” (Colon: probably he is just constipated), or , “When you are angry you are red, when you are something something… and you call me colored”, or “Only Jesus can save you”. This is not people on podiums with clenched fists, this is as real as people get. They are there as vulnerable as they can be and this is what they feel. If course it’s not all sad and angry. There is boredom too: “to play tennis look the other side” and of course there is the arrow pointing the other side on the other side (that guy eats his fiber to keep things moving smoothly and uninteresting, you know what I mean; too graphic, shut up). There is of course the usual toilet humor and graphic images which render all governmental funding on sex education unnecessary. Do you ever wonder what you would find if you walked into the restroom of the Capitol Hill: For a good time call so and so number, Senator from Idaho sucks good dick (Is that a R or a D; man or women; why Idaho)

Oh it doesn’t matter, it’s just an example and quit whispering. It is more annoying.

Alright continue.

And how does it work. Does a person go in with the intent of writing something. Does he carry a pen or a sharp metallic object just for this, or is it more stream of consciousness kind of a thing. What would happen if a hand magically appeared under the stall and handed me a pen? May be I will be jolted into a burst of creative fury, writing an opus on the gray walls for everybody to read at their leisure. May be I am just a magical restroom pen away from becoming a great writer. But I digress. I have always been intrigued by how things evolve. The way I see it a fancy becomes a fashion becomes a habit becomes a tradition becomes a culture and ends up sacred. Imagine people going in there to pray, may be they already do…

Entrepreneur1: Fashion, that’s it. Idea: Large public restroom. White boards, no, no electronic boards, neon lights, yeah baby that’s it. Wired up to internet, writing, blogging, painting, music, you name it. We will call it: Let your creativity out. I think I like it…

Entrepreneur2: You know what we can do, imagine a restaurant. Ultra uber. Modeled as a run down bar, graffiti everywhere. Have entire kama sutra has been scribbled on the restroom walls. People come to check out the restrooms, and oh we make the suckers pay on expensive entrees

Alright, enough of this puerile nonsense. Let’s wrap it for today.

But I am not finished.

Buddy at this rate we will never finish. This is as good as it will get.

Prologue! Blogs can't have prologues, can they?

Leader: Alright who called this meeting…somebody…nobody? , Groans, all around, I guess it’s canceled then.

Lazy guy: Oh c’mon, we just got here. I cannot get up again so soon. Let’s just stay and have the damn meeting.

Depressed guy: It’s dark and gloomy outside anyways. Let’s just do this. Affirmative grunting and nodding all around.

Leader: Well seems like we are staying. So what was the agenda…the message says… discuss blogging. The writer! that’s who is missing. He is one who called this, didn’t he.

Some random guy (SRG): I think the exhibitionist also involved. He is missing too.

SRG: Isn’t this blogging like a diary.

Social psychologist: No, it’s quite the opposite actually. Diaries were personal, all about secrets. It was representative of a world where kings, dictators and big families in small houses were the norm. Diary was an expression for privacy. Now that privacy is the norm, we want to become public.

Conspiracy guy: It’s all bull shit man. There is no privacy. You think the big brother’s not watching you.

Sp: But see, it’s only the perceived privacy that matters and …

Conspiracy guy:Oh cut the crap. Haven’t you seen that black spot near the ear.

You mean the mole.

Mole, is that what you think it is. It’s a chip man. It’s implanted right into the brain. It reads the brain waves man.

Leader: All right enough nonsense. All in favor say aye. Collective grunting, indicating a majority of ayes. Good work then, let’s move on.

Discussion freak: Hold on there. That’s it? We need to talk about this, collective grunting again, not sure for or against, I mean this blog will represent us all. It might become the one face for all us personalities.

But we already have a face.

Oh c’mon! Not that; you know what I mean.

I think he is right. We all should have a say. We have a say… We have a say… Suddenly everybody is energized, shouting we have a say.

Alright, alright, we all have a say.

So you mean even, let’s say, the liver can just chime in.

Sure why not.

Hang on, I thought this was just for the abstract personalities, not real parts.

Collective parts: No, no, we also have a say.

Ah how does it matter, let them.

So even the big toe can just randomly pop in.

Only if he is the longest one.

Oh c’mon, this is discrimination against the longitudinally challenged. I will say what I have to say.

Writer and the exhibitionist come running. Sorry we are late. Thank you for waiting.

Sorry boys, we have already decided. Either we all contribute or nobody does.

Writer: What do you mean? That’s just crazy. It’s chaotic.

All or nothing. Choose your pick. I can give you some priority, but that is as much.

But what happens if we are schizophrenic.

We are not schizophrenic. We all know each other.

But how would you know you didn’t know somebody if you didn’t know their existence. If you allow everybody, they could sneak in.

Hush, quit blabbering. This is the final deal. That’s it for now. Starting tomorrow, there will be a typist available in the nights, people can pop in and say what they want. Capeesh. Good.