Buttons

Luckily my wi-fi reaches down into the basement. The first day of the basement plan went well. I've smoked my days quota of cigarettes and gone through about a pack of hot dogs. The Wall Street Journal is fresh as ever. I have been urinating into a joint compound bucket partially filled with coffee grounds to tame the smell of waste. Early this morning I defecated into it and the striking juxtaposition of the dark brown grounds with the light brown feces was a sight to behold. A tan cetacean, his echolocation ruined, lies marooned, glistening on the coarse mahogany sand. The uncertainty remains surrounding whether or not the lid will blow off from pressure created by the mixture during the coming days, so I've put a few bricks on top to keep it in there.

More hot dogs in the hot plate. I'm developing an affinity for the hot dog recipe. This recipe is a processed meat ambrosia, this basement my Elysium. If only the ancient Greeks had hot dogs their empire would still flourish today, our fossil fuel woes solved by riding great chariots through the streets.

However, uncertainty of how to pass the time between hot dogs mounts. I have been playing a game where I turn off the lights, rip a button off my shirt and toss the button in the room, trying to find it by touch until I do, and then tossing it again.

So far I've found the button five times and lost four buttons. I'm sure they'll turn up in the next few days so long as I can keep searching. This basement preparation ritual is a great American tradition, and I'm thankful for all the words of encouragement I've received from the readership and the fine folks at the national hot dog and sausage council.