Maybe I should take some kind of waterproof notebook and pen into the shower. My imagination seems to percolate like soap suds washing down the unclogged drain, if you can mix metaphors, or more accurately similes, like that.
What if (purely hypothetical now) one were (again, note the subjunctive mode, which is dying in the English language) to drop the bar of soap IMMEDIATELY after the aforeposted peeing? Well, you'd have to clean that soap, wouldn't you? (Again, asking just hypothetically, because this is all purely conjectural.) If you're asking me, yeah, clean off the soap, wash it, purify it, however redundant or tautological that action may seem.
Following up on my last post, which caused so many of you to splash in with yourinary comments, I have a few more confessions to make (BTW, the other day The New York Times had a feature on confessional sites, including one from an evangelical church in Denver, plus perhaps even one with cyber-absolution; ironic, ain't it? I spent languorous Saturday afternoons of my youth sitting in a pew with friends, gossipping and flirting and sweating, and then confessing our sins and emerging feeling crystal clean and bright after the penance was performed after the "Ego te absolvo..." of the priest -- one of whom used to actually nod off! hey, did I not "sin boldly" enough -- to borrow Martin Luther's phrase)...where was I, oh, the confessions:
1. As one who is not inclined to sweating and one who does not perform sweat-inducing labor as a job, I simply do not take a shower every single day (unless it's hot -- OH FECKIT! I do not have to defend this). Americans will be aghast at this. The rest of the world will shrug. A couple of years ago, one of my brothers howled in derisive laughter when I casually alluded to this practice in what was a friendly chat until then. I think since he is so well off now he remembers our rather poor upbringing, with its Saturday night baths, with shame. I do not.
2. I rarely use a washcloth. (I can see a new online informal poll here.) (This may explain my intimate textural connection with the soap. There's no good segue to this, but I wash dishes with the aid of detergent and sponge, but it is the hands that can feel if the object is clean or not. Other Americans, especially Republicans in the suburbs and exurbs, will be aghast that we have no electronic dishwasher.)
3. I recently bought a bar of soap at Crabtree & Evelyn for seven bucks plus tax. Soap for men with an uppercase M, okay Mr. Tough Guy? (Really, it was because my son's fiancee works there, I wanted to drop in and say hi, she wasn't there, I couldn't say, no, blah blah blah. I partially lie. I like it. It gives me a chick-magnet-inducing pheromone.)
The Laughorist, being a former seminarian, will end on a preachy note inspired by Azgoddess's I'm Sorry World blog and some of her blogging friends (Morning Martini and the Lehigh Valley Rambler):
Speaking of metaphors, aren't we in need of cleansing the alleged cleaners? Isn't it time to dethrone our self-righteously pure Talibanic ayatollahs? Isn't it time we jump in the shower and awake from our collective sleepwalk?