The Lab Goddess and Her Magic Butt hole

You read the title correctly. It's written exactly as I intended. There's nothing mystifying about it. BUTT HOLE. Crass? You bet. I've spent a lifetime attempting to be the good little girl 24/7 and it's given me little less than a mountain of frustration. So, my halo is coming off and I'm revealing my horns. I have said this before and I'll say it again: This is my blog and I get to do whatever I want with it. I've reached that certain age when a woman just doesn't give a damn what everybody else thinks. I'm still a nice girl. This is an instance where I need free reign to express myself.

With that out of the way, I will continue to explain what I mean by magic butt hole. For you perverts reading this, it has nothing to do with a sexual act.

If you're married or living with someone, I ask you to think back to a time when your loving significant other asked you where his lucky boxers -- or t-shirt --were located. Since you don't wear his lucky boxers (chances are they are so nastified you utilize grill tongs to put them in the washer) you have no idea. You tell him they are probably where he removed them AND NOT IN THE HAMPER WHERE THEY BELONG; THEREFORE, THEY DIDN'T GET LAUNDERED! You insist you've not seen them nor did you selfishly throw the raggedy assed things away. He gets bent out of joint because he needs to wear them in order for his favorite team or NASCAR driver will win. Clearly, the fate of all sporting events rests in his Fruit of the Looms.

In a panic, he gets spastic. He becomes indignant and frantically accuses you of not caring or wanting to help. In your calm, cool and collected manner, you tell him to think back to the last time he wore his lucky bum covers. You're calm because you really do know where to tell him to look. You remember when he came home from watching the game with his buddies slightly hammered and delusionally amorous. In his drunken state, he thought he had the hip gyrations of Ricky Martin down. Slurring the words to "Shake your Bon Bon" he attempted to entertain you with a strip tease. Those funky, thread bare skivvies flew across the room and now make time with the dust bunnies behind the nightstand.

Despite your efforts to help him recall where they were deposited, he can't find them. So, while he's sulking or staring into the refrigerator for inspiration, you retrieve them. Voila! You knew exactly where they were, but to him, you have a magic butt hole from which you pull lost items and solutions. Time and time again, your magic butthole is called upon to save him.

Similar situations occur everywhere. It's not isolated to the female of the species. Perhaps you've met face to face with this in the workplace. It's not that you're appreciated for your expertise and vast knowledge, though. No, this is all about laziness and passing the buck. Your co-workers come to you with questions. Questions you know very well were asked and answered in previous days. Tasks that are simply completed suddenly become too overwhelming for the average person. Your super human, goddess-like skills are the answer.

Initially, it feels good to be needed. In the offset, you feel like you're educating your fellow employees. You share with them the tools of the trade. They fawn over you and give you high praise. They even go so far as nicknaming you Lab Goddess. Ooooh, that makes your ego soar. The warm fuzzies overcome you like a nice cup of hot cocoa with marshmallow fluff.

Day in and day out for 4 years you keep giving solutions or just taking over the menial task. You're a team player. Then, it dawns on you that you're being taken advantage of. Ire builds within your goddess like demeanor. It's not so much that you no longer want to help or educate, but the recipients do not want to learn. They do not want to retain the information you so graciously bestowed upon them in their hour of need. You are no longer a mentor, but a fall guy or scape goat. Your company spends millions of dollars developing programs that are intended to be readily available to all. You keep such books and tools on hand for all to utilize.

However, instead of taking it upon themselves to be independent or looking like an idiotic asshat, they come to you. You have all the answers. A wrath comes down upon you when you don't have an answer. Those needy co-workers turn to you in frustration and demand a solution. It's their problem, but you hold the key. That is when you turn to your magic butt hole. It's a special place where the impossible is stored. The magic butt hole is where you pull out all your answers.

Your butt hole is magical because you've elected NOT to put your head up there. Thereby, not inhibiting the flow of all things relating to expertise and knowledge. Because your anal sphincter isn't blocked by your cranium, you're able to think for yourself and find answers; perform the impossible. Due to the lack of bunghole blockage, you are able to breathe easily and do your job without being annoyingly dependent. You keep notes in your pocket or maintain a notebook that keeps the tips at your fingertips; keeping that notebook available for all. There are no secrets.

Somehow, no matter how frequently you point them in the right direction, they maintain that they are informationally challenged. The words "I never knew that, " or "No one ever told me," rolls off their lips too frequently. There's no doubt in your mind that they know. Their signature resides on the memo that revealed the information they are strangely lacking. A memo that is kept in the very book where all other information is stored.

In your frustration from all such nonsense and because you are a sarcastic wit duly irritated by the incessant feigned ignorance, you resort to pantomiming the action of removing an item from your posterior -- TADA!!! The world is saved by the lab goddess and her magic butt hole.