#733: In Which I Grow My Own Brisket

The other night, as I was getting ready to go to sleep, I sat down on the edge of the bed wearing nothing but my underwear. I happened to glance over at the streaky full-length mirror that was quite possibly nailed to our closet door in 1927. That's the last time I will allow my eyes to wander in that direction while disrobing until I get rid of my new body part.

That's right, you heard me. I have a new body part. If I were a cow, this new body part might indicate a nicely marbled future brisket point end, but I am not a cow. I am a Schmutzie, a Schmutzie with a brand new chowflap*.

When I glanced over at the mirror, I saw this small thing that appeared to flap down just above my pubic hair line. What is this? I thought. From whence did it come? I applied an index finger to its underside and pushed up. The small flap raised easily with my finger. I removed my index finger. The flap settled back to its original resting position. You are a curious thing, I thought. I sucked in my stomach, which would normally take care of such a thing, but the chowflap remained unmoved.

Is this a product of age plus ten pounds? And if so, why have I not been told of these chowflaps?

I can totally get with loving the skin I am in, but do I have to love what is underneath it? Because that chowflap is not long for this world. It has spent the last couple of days lying about like an indolent cat, and I already have two of those, thank you very much.

Oskar and Onion sitting in a tree...

*My apologies to debl at Chowflap. This was an unintentional language overlap. Go there for hot baby bird action!

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Lassitude And Nothingness