My mind is a dangerous place. Make sure you wear a cup.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Inner Workings

I sometimes think of my body as being run by hundreds of microscopic men. It's quite a large scale production, apparently.

The smartest guys work up in the brain, of course, controlling all the higher functions. Lots of them were at the top of their class. They make most of the decisions. However, since mine is a democratic body, all the departments are represented at the daily committee meeting. These meetings are held in Conference Room 4 (the one near the cafeteria).

I picture the brain guys wearing white shirts and ties. Some of them wear lab coats. The guys working the rest of the body are mostly blue collar workers, of course. The guys working in the small and large intestine wear Haz-Mat suits and are always bitching about the stomach guys when they send certain things down. And the stomach guys say hey, don't blame us, it's Harvey in Brain Sector C that keeps giving him that craving for corn on the cob.

And what a production that daily committee meeting is! The muscle rep is always putting down the brain guys, the union steward for the heart is always harping on the muscle rep for not exercising more, the ass guy just sits there eating donuts, and the penis manager is always trying to ram his own agenda through committee. No one pays any attention to the appendix guy, and from the looks of things there is going to be some more downsizing in the Hair Department, so that guy is always on edge.

Sometimes it erupts in a drunken orgy of violence.

And don't get me started about those wise guys in the Dream Department. One minute I'm enjoying a restful snooze, and then suddenly I'm thrust into the Bavarian Alps where, along with my trusty companion, a talking howler monkey named Roscoe, I do battle with an army of Britney Spears-worshipping Nazis who shoot spitballs at me and tease me about wearing white after Labor Day.

My dream guys are class clowns.

It's a wonder how I function with this crew. But somehow they manage to pull it together every day and make it work. The only reason I am telling you all this is because Mikey, who is employed in the Cerebral Cortex, and works first shift, has come in early today, locked the others in the breakroom (the good one, with the popcorn machine) and has taken over control long enough for me to type this. But he's just about done. There. Now he's finished.

He's gonna get written up for this.


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