It started in the most unlikely of places; a peanut butter on wheat bread sandwich. All right, I’ll admit that wheat bread is a little suspect on it’s own (I’ll take my flour bleached and enriched, thank you very much!), but desperate times lead to hasty choices on the bread isle. In short (and with no further explanation), all I had was wheat bread to satisfy my hankering for a PB sandwich. And no, I didn’t forget the jelly.

Two sandwiches and a can of Cherry Coke later – and I was curled up in a fetal position on the bed wondering where it all went wrong. Being a stomach means never having to explain why you are pissed off. Mine was good and pissed, but it wasn’t doing any talking. A trip to the can seemed to smooth things over for a while, so I tried to quell the other brewing storm – my wife’s impatience. The view from the gestation throne apparently was not very good, so it was time for some serious choring up.

I was right in the middle of taking out the trash when I completely ignored the twelfth law of child rearing: never take something from your child’s bathroom waste can for granted. You never know what you might find there – so don’t go looking. What possessed me to tempt the fates will never be known, but what followed will go right in the log book under “this is what happens when you do something stupid.” In short order I found myself kneeling before the throne, offering my sacrifices to the god of well-being.

Thanks for tuning in.