Those of you with weakish constitutions or a lack of desire to know about the very minutiae of my existence, specifically my bowels, should cease reading this entry.

That goes double for my officemates, who are already cursed and blessed with my presence for about 1/5 of most workdays and really probably have no interest.

If you're reading on, despite my considerate advice, you are either somewhat slow of wit, strong of courage and fortitude or someone who already knows me and is already (unfortunately for you) aware of my constant fascination with the current state of my bowels. Indeed, among some of my friends, I am known as the 'Poop Nazi' because of this.

But the fact is, I admit to this personality, er, 'quirk' on my part. My innards are a thing of utmost importance to me and I can't believe everyone doesn't share my tendency to casually discuss my gastrointestinal state the way some people talk about the weather or the local sports team. This is probably part of the reason I don't do so well with small talk: my immediate reaction upon being faced with a question like "How ya doin'?" is to internally perform a self-inventory and respond accurately and completely.

This is not an accepted or welcome trait.

At any rate, I mention all of that because, as the notably perceptive among you have probably already surmised, I'm about to issue a report on the state of things in my innards.

Things are pretty Elvissey in there right now. I wouldn't be too surprised if I were to have a fatal grabber while vainly straining for sweet relief on the throne of porcelain, like the King.

I just hope to god I'm reading something better than he was when that sorry fate visits me.