Drink lottsa wish-kay.

Poop…
Goodness all over graciousness fucking face mother fuckers. My apologies for not writing in weeks, if you had stock in the word fuck you woulda seen an epic Wall Street-esque plunge in your investment without my blog. Don’t worry we will sure as mother fucking shit fix that fucking fuck up in you fucks fucking lives. Fuck. Anwyays where to begin with all the fake and real news flashes that have been flooding in my office (bathroom). Well I suppose we can start with right now, the present moment, because it is fresh on my mind, soon to be fresh on the fucking toilet bowl. I have been In the Rove (great fucking city) for a minute or two now trying to get whats wrong with me figured out. Guesses have been wide, they have been varied, and they have been getting more accurate. If only Blues Clues had a fucking medical degree we coulda had my problems solved in a 30 minute television block and still had time to watch salt and pepper dance on the table. Anywho my totes rad PCMO (peace corps medical officer) has been working his balls off to figure out what is wrong with me. I mean I didn’t really give him a lot to go off of, I feel like shit, like all the time, that’s my symptoms. Anywho after much detective investigative work we found out that I am quite literally full of shit. Sorry, this blog, its kinda gross, uncalled for, most people would not talk about these things, but good for me and bad for you I am not most fuck faces. Anwyho for whatever reason my colon and my shit have formed a relationship and they have decided they don’t wanna part ways. What a bunch of shitheads. So we have been spending some time on making them part ways, now even I have some scantly clad morals that I more often than not keep in the back of my closet right night next to the tight leopard skin pants. But occasionally, just occasionally I bust them out, this is one of those times. I will spare you most of the talk of what the past week has been like, lets suffice it to say unpleasant. My most recent task has been hounding down some salty salt water and Milk of Mag. Sweet Christ take it from a kid who aint pooping, those things make you poop. A lot. So that’s where we are at right now. I will keep you posted. The only other thing I will mention is this: pooping in cups, its not fun, its gross. The follow up to pooping in a cup, moving the poop from cup to test tube vial is even less fun especially when the tool you are using to scoop said poop is not adequately sized. Such was my case. One thing that this experience did teach me is that I am definitely one of those people who shit mother fucking stinks. So if you ever hear anyone say that that fuckhead Tj walks about like his shit don’t stank up the joint, you can say “untrue fucker that fuckhead Tj is more aware than most people of how horrible his fucking turds smell.” I would also like to point out for those of you still reading that I have been calling the shit poop. Haha. Anways I will get off the subject here because I think that’s enough and also I gotta poop!
Other news, good news comes in threes, or is that bad news, I don’t know, but I am gonna give you three things of good news, first in highlight form, than in more depth analysis. 1. I hung out on an empty, beautiful beach. 2. I had KFC-esque chicken. 3. I found Harry Potter 7, The Deathly Hallows pt. 1 for sale on the street. 4. I gotta shit again.
Ok so that was 4 and one them good news to me but gross news to you, the reason it got mentioned is because it was true. Deal with it. Anways back to 1. We had Peace Corps meeting at Tinkers beach a little outside of Monrovia. It was lovely, it was relaxing, it was full of meetings. Anyway the beaches in this lovely little country are amazing, simply amazing. Though I don’t really have any right to judge beaches I am a mountain kid, and god do I miss those snow covered rocks. I am having straight crack head withdrawals over snowboarding right now. But I must say there was a moment in time sitting under a palm tree, digging my little pink toesies into the course tan sand, breathing in the salty ocean air, watching the sun close down another Liberian day where I had to seriously sit and think about whether it was real or not. It seemed as though I was in one of those high school movies about a calfiornia school. You know the ones that are always too good to be true and more likely than not have Freddie Prince Jr in it. Whatever happened to that guy?
2. Monroe chicken mother fuckers. It is fast food chicken here in Liberia, and it is delicious. For reals and seriously it is just like KFC except better and in Monrovia. The first bite of it I took I jazzed my pants and found the meaning to life. The meaning of life is to eat crispity crunchity chicken. O my god, I gotta shit again. Sorry, but its true. And if I gotta do it you should know about it. Anways the chicken is the dankity.
3. People sell these ripped DVD’s on the streets here, I have bought such instant classics as The Expendables, Predators, and now I have added HP 7. Boo ya! Ka sha! That’s really all I have to say about that.
Well before I go sit and wait 20 minutes to download the new Conor Oberst “Coyote Song” for the 30th time in my life I will leave you with this life altering question. IF a man (or a woman, I am not a misogynist and you can have it what other way you like) came up to you and said if you do not speak/write/sign language for a year you will turn into a bear. What would you do? I mean you wouldn’t turn into some kind of little shitty bear (koala, black bear, panda bear) no you would turn into either the most vicious bear in the world (Polar Bear) or the most badass salmon eating thing on the fucking planet (Grizzly bear). Anways if I stop talking and writing and all that we all know what happened, and you can come see me in Alaska.
Also one last thought, I felt kinda bad about this blog, you know what with all the swearing and judgments I passed, but then Wikileaks released how our diplomats talk about shit. Now instead of feeling bad about my language I think I will just put it on my resume and go talk to the state department. Fuckya.

Alas! Alas! Alas! It has happened. My streak is over. I have sharted in my pants. Poopy water all over the fucking draws. Shit. Quite literally shit. To be fair I feel pretty good about the length of time I made it without shitting myself in Africa. Much better than I can say for some of my counterparts, and mine was a relatively “small” incident, contained only to my under draws as opposed to running down my leg is oozing embarrassment. Ew sorry that was gross. No I am not mad about the pants shitting, I mean these things they happen, I am mad at how it happened. I was sitting here, jamming some tunes and reading “A Fraction of the Whole” (great book) and I realized I needed to pass gas, or in crude terms I had to make farties, or toot. In my mind I started going through a debate that went something like this…ah man, I gotta fart, but this book is really good and I am at a critical point and I really don’t wanna get up right now.- Yea but the bathroom is like 10 feet away and you are on a lot of laxatives, lets not risk it. –fuck it I will just do it with a certain amount of caution, how can this go bad…AH FUCK! The ah fuck is where I made dookie in my pants. The moral of the story, or the lesson to be gleaned here is NEVER risk it when a on a shit ton of laxatives and the bathroom is 10 feet away. You can always resume reading a book, you can never unpoop your pants. I want that put on my gravestone when I die. Actually I want it to read “here lies Tj fucking Stolz the fucker who partied with polar bears.” Followed by that piece of advice. Also I want it to be diamond encrusted. Also while we are on the morbid subject of my death I want to give my own eulogy. Instead of giving my money to my family or some charity bullshit I am gonna spend it all on hiring the best puppeteer money can buy. Then I will have him string my dead corpse up and right in the middle of my funeral I will pop up outta my casket walk up, mime to my pre-recorded eulogy about what a great man I was and how I fought hordes of evil troglodytes and saved millions of children and damsels in distress and single handedly stopped the world financial crisis than walk back to the casket, light it on fire and close the lid. Now that’s a fucking a funeral!
Yes, to answer the question you are all asking yourself after reading that last paragraph I do realize how fucking weird my mind is. What to do?