Hey! Look At What I Wrote!

The underlining business of the blog post title, unnecessary. Too formal. I honestly don't feel like this is worthy enough of an underline. I don't even use the underline when I mention books in a paper. I use the italics. Yeah, italicize it. That's an answer. Calm down and give me italics. Underlining is too much. Makes me look prententous. Like I really think what I'm typing is great. Its trash. A sham. And if you think of it as being worthy of a thick line lying underneath the title, giving the title the right to step all over that respectable line, then you are a fool. I say free thick line. He deserves rights and is worth much more than the words who try to step on his beautiful face. Go on line, go on a vacation. You deserve it.

Other than that, I've been vomiting lately. And by lately I mean last night. Vomiting is the single most terrible of bodily functions, at least for dude. I hate it, especially when there is no reason for it. I don't know why I threw up three times last night. It just happened. Stomach must have got fed up.

"Hey! Hey you up there! You think you can just throw whatever you want down here?! I'll give you what for! Have your stupid lunch back! I'm going on strike!"

Aaannndd...hurl.

Profusely.

What the crap stomach? Really? I don't have time for your silly rebellions. You don't see colon freaking out. Or lungs. Heart has been pumping strong for 23 years. But you, you lazy stomach, you just feel like stopping your job right in the middle and sending it back to esophogas and mouth.

"I don't care what Mike says Essie and Mouth. We should have thrown him out a long time ago. What's that? OOOHH, Brain says! You know brain says a lot, but I think he's a jerk! He doesn't even do anything! Its that stem that tells us what to do! All brain does is sit in that comfy skull and think. I wish I could get paid to sit around and think. I'm on strike! You in liver?"

"Not really, man."

"Screw you guys! I've been trying to tell Appendix for years to pop his poisonous jucies so we can finally bust this joint, but no! I guess I'm the only one with some back bone."

"Actually, I have back bone. I am the back bone"

"Shut up spine! Nobody asked you!"

Stomach will finally stop rebelling though. That's what always happens. Sure, he thinks he can over throw the place, but after awhile he calms down. Get's it together. His wife, Small Intestine, finally talks him out of it. Reminds him he's supporting his children, Pancreas and Gall Bladder. Then he shuts up and does his job.

Until then, he's going to be throwing everything everywhere.