Mules Are Dirty, Like You

There are times, however infrequent they may be, that I impress myself with outstanding feats of devilish cunning and cleaver-sharp wit. And, there are also times that I am amazed at my ability to stand upright and be considered more intelligent than say, a poodle. This morning, as I sang in the shower, belting out a baritone and slightly Ukrainian-sounding version of Erie Canal, I sadly realized that my brain is a cesspool of disjointed and mostly useless information. And, what was even more upsetting (and slightly more pathetic than my desire to sing acappella choral tunes so early on a Tuesday morning) was my inability to recall any song lyrics. It would be safe to assume, especially after a childhood spent in catholic school, that I would at least remember some of the songs I learned in chorus and the countless hours spent sitting, kneeling, and standing in church. What a fucking disappointment. Not because I really care, but just because I was in a singing mood. And really, how often does that happen?