Where There's Smoke...There's Little People and Dildos

I became interested in the subject of smoke signals today. Unfortunately, there's not much information available on the topic online. I wondered whether smoke signs could be very elaborate, like morse code, but I guess, according to the aforementioned web site, there's not much subtlety in fire.

I had a strange dream last night that this smart kid at my high school, Bill, some other smart kid, and I were in this contest where we had to find as many "little people" as we could hidden in three levels of a darkened mansion. The little people were none other than regular people who had been shrunk to about the size of an action figure. (Did they eat processed foods like Lily Tomlin did in the Incredible Shrinking Woman? Who's to say for sure?) People this small creep me out the way bugs creep me out. Anyway, I didn't win the contest—I think I only "captured" twelve. They were put in a jar until the end of the contest, and all I kept thinking was, "what if they die in there?" For some reason, I think this dream had something to do with leadership. However, as I have already proven my suck factor as a ex-middle manager, I don't care to speculate on this dream any further.

The gazpacho is gone, it's raining again, and I will now tell you a little story about my back and a twelve-inch dildo. I went over someone's house to put their trash out in the alley for garbage pickup (the names have been omitted to protect the innocent and pure) when I discovered that their gate had been rusted shut. It was necessary to hoist the bags over the fence, a feat not too strenuous, in my opinion, seeing as one bag contained entirely weeds and another a used mattress pad (ick). So I go to pick up the bag with the mattress pad in it when it's twenty times heavier than I thought it would be because several days of torrential downpours have filled the mattress pad like a diaper, a diaper that leaks several gallons of water all over the front of me. As I go to hoist the soggy diaper/mattress pad over the fence, the bottom of the bag gets caught on the top of the fence. A small hole is created that is somehow large enough for a twelve-inch flesh-colored dildo to fall out onto the ground. There are no other trash bags in the house. I have to find a little plastic grocery bag and some gardening gloves, pick up the dildo, shove it in the bag (bending it slighty so that it will fit), and shove the whole thing back into the bottom of the ripped trash bag, all while hoping it doesn't fall out again the following day when the garbagemen pick up the bag and that no one has seen this incident transpire.

The kicker? Lifting the damn 20-lb diaper dildo bag has taken out my back completely. If I was ever in need of bedrest from a 12-inch dildo, this was not the scenario I imagined.