Typically I will start off by telling you that there is no point to the upcoming story or, at the very least, no moral to it. Not so in this case. There is a moral. A very big moral.
Don’t ever check your friend’s web history on their computer when they are out of the room. Just don’t. Yes you will find porn and plenty of it and yes, it might surprise you a bit but it’s not worth it. There are things you can’t un-see.
I know from experience. An experience that started an epic quest.
Are sitting up a bit straighter with a “do tell” look on your face?
In that case … tell I will.
I’ll hustle past the particulars of how I came to be alone with his computer for that is the very least interesting part of this whole tale. All that is important is that I was alone with it, I looked at his internet history and I found that he Googled “anal leakage.”
If you’re anything like me you’re sitting a bit less straight with a “don’t tell” look etched upon your kisser. Too late chum, once I start telling there is no stopping me and there is no reason I should be carrying this terrible burden alone.
What is anal leakage?
Outstanding question. One that immediately popped into my mind and caused me to see what else my friend had been Googling.
Out of respect for your “don’t tell” face I won’t go into detail about the other graphic descriptions he asked Google to wrestle with but I will tell you this: apparently my friend can wipe until his ass is spotless and a bit raw, but an hour after he’s done his business he’s leaving skidmarks.
What else can I say? I said “I know” in a very commiserating way, as if to note your objections with going any further but if you’ve come this far you might as well keep on going.
Here’s where things get odd. I Googled the same stuff and although there are plenty of references to it there are no solutions. You can even see pictures if your heart so desires but there is no advice to be had on the topic. That left me feeling horrible for my friend. I can’t imagine a more embarrassing affliction than constantly feeling less-than-fresh downstairs.
Now I too was encumbered. How could I ever look him in the face knowing that he carried this around with him? It was up to me to find an answer and if Google couldn’t provide it then I knew there was only place that could.
So I had to fly into Chennai and get a guide named Ramawamy (who claimed he was an expert in avoiding rush hour traffic and proved it by immediately getting us caught in a traffic jam of epic proportions) to take me to see a wise man at the top of a mountain.
On the way I had to endure Chai tea, groups of young boys who seemed intent on teaching me cricket (their cries of “good bowling man!” made me laugh despite myself), and battalions of local shopkeepers who’s only interest in life seemed to be getting me to visit their stores.
After a grueling climb I finally reached the front door and, wearing a saffron Kirta and smoking a bede (a form of leaf tobacco), I was waved into the inner sanctum of the wise man. He gave me a quick look up and down and said “Don’t tell me.”
He studied me some more.
“You want to know how earthlings could write a computer program that could infect alien hardware in Independence Day?”
I shook my head no and started to explain but he waved me off and took another long look.
“It’s for a friend” I explained.
“Of course it is.”
So there you have it. One quick peek on a friend’s computer had me jetting off to friggin’ India. You don’t want that, believe me.
And the answer to anal leakage?
Well I’m afraid you’re going to have to ask ol’ Shwas yourself.
Tell him hi from me if you do.