So, Blog grits, you get to see my finished or somewhat finished blog posts at this site. But what about the unpublished ones that could not stand the light of day? You know, like who else was at that meeting with the Russians? Or the posts that were squelched by some counterintelligence agent’s bullet just as Burrito Special was about to press PUBLISH? I don’t actually know. I sometimes accidentally delete a few; others just die on the vine, unpicked and rotting, covered in confused, coppery Japanese beetles. Perhaps there is beauty in such decadence; perhaps not. Maybe, like creepy tattoos, it becomes the next big thing.
There was the post about the variety of belly buttons, the ins and outs and squamous ones. Then there was this one, which looks like an African elephant coming up from a putty pipe. What is a belly button but scar tissue? A whale’s eye? A lamprey eel’s mouth? The beauty of a navel is in the eye of the beholder, right? If Kahlil Gibran is correct, “Beauty is eternity gazing at itself in the mirror”, then what are we to do with a perfect belly button?
Let’s see, gold plate it– if it’s an outy.
Then there is the artsy commercialization of navels as demonstrated below. In Mumbai an awesome navel is a money maker, umbilically speaking. Mesmerizing and hypnotic.
And delving deeper into the meaning of umbilical, we come to umbilicus, a hole at the center of a shell whorl of some gastropod mollusks. Sometimes it is confused with the word imbecile, which has to do with another body part.
STOP ogling that umbilicus, you imbecilicus!
Shell whorl umbilicus:
I believe this clears up a lot of the mystery of navel history. You see, on a very tenuous thread of connectivity, only microfibers thick, these belly button details hang, without meaning or purpose or relevance, like wet Washington Senator baseball cards on grandma’s clothesline in 1969. That’s why this post should never see the light of day. I just wanted you outsiders who gasp at the final blog sausages to see the inner workings of how said sausage is made. It is not pretty or elegant. Blogging is often about getting past the gag reflex inflicted by dead pork products oozing through a meat grinder. Yep, it’s like that. Just throw a bunch of anything cubes in the funnel end and turn the handle till you get tired.
So you see, my friends, I have been kind in my editing, leaving the mangled messes pretty much on the floor when I can override my id…. but then, some urgent force overwhelms me and a song comes to mind… God, forgive me.
I knew a man Go Mangles
And he’d lie to you In Italian shoes
Orange hair, silky shirt, and lizard tongue tie
He did the old tongue foo
He piled it high
Then he’d lightly touch down…
I met him in a cell in New York City, He was
Bankrupt, no doubt
He looked to me to be a ball of sleaze
As he spoke right out
He talked of lies to the FBI, laughed and slapped my back…
Said his name, Go Mangles, and he danced a lick
Across the cell
Grabbed his pants for a better stance Then he jumped so high
He clicked his heels
let go a laugh, let go some gas and shook back his hair all around
Mr. Go Mangles, Mr. Go Mangles, Mr. Go Mangles,
He lied to those at handgun shows and county fairs
throughout the South
He spoke with tears of fifteen years
How his college and him grifted about
His school up and died, it up and died
After many lawsuits he still grieves
He said, “I dance now at every chance In the White House for winks and tits
But most the time I spend inside my broken mind
Cuz I lies a bits”
He shook his head, and as he shook his head
I heard Bob Mueller ask him, “Please, please…
Mr. Go Mangles, You bad hombre punk
You orange Russian skunk
Daaaaaannnnnnnccccccce.” You see? This stuff should never see the light of day. Just too hideous. Sad.
Even if I could somehow fuse the umbilicus with the Trumpilicus, I could not unleash that on the unwitting public. Too terrible. Bad. I, I, well, okay, I found an image, but I’m pretty sure it’s fake news.
And there you have it, folks. The twisted contours of the Burrito’s mind without any editing.