Monday, January 11, 2010
MANIC MOXIE MUST READ!!!
I shudder even touching these keys, as I plan to live in a Visqueen hut sealed by 9,000 rolls of duct tape, and then moving everyday, but as your humble leader and germaphobe of the highest order, it is incumbent upon me to pass along some information that recently ruined my life, by way of Gail, my most prized Moxling, whose greatest domestic fail was a hand towel that was askew in 2006. Okay I'm wasting valuable time, ready?
According to an article in the current issue of Health Magazine, the presence of fecal particles emanating from each and every toilet--yes that means yours and mine (faints!)--is constant and unavoidable. And that these particles also love to dwell in every single pair of underwear that has ever been worn. (Regains consciousness then faints again.)
I checked. It's true. I'm mortified. It's as if I've failed all of you, my children, myself. Obviously I'm naked and marinating in bleach.
Personally, while I support free-range produce and not eating that which is crawling with e.Coli, I am also a believer in the human immune system to enable me to eat at a restaurant and not die. (Unless it's Taco Bell, then death is a certainty.) Anyway, I use common sense when eating but military vigilance when it comes to hygiene. And I'm walking (well, trembling at the moment) proof that my theory has merit, as I used to spend exorbitant periods of time in a household where one is more likely to find the Hope Diamond than hand soap, where fecal matter was treated as casually as a pile of laundry, which in this particular case translates into a sea comparable to the Atlantic Ocean of "clean," dirty, really dirty, wet, and dry laundry, sometimes with wood chips atop, and always a dog. This epoch belies verbal description, but the point is I survived. I probably used 497,000 gallons of hand sanitizer when no one was looking, plus mini spray bottles of disinfectant for those moments wherein what needs to be done can only be done in the bathroom. God only knows the tornado of fecal particles that surrounded me in those years. I will report back on the effects of drinking bleach.
Meanwhile, here are some suggestions for fighting this insidious, revolting reality:
For the OCD-minded:
Slightly less drastic:
Good luck troops. (Sealing my bubble.)