Jabba The Butt

These days I kinda disgust myself, in the most loving self care kinda way of course. I take care of myself by expelling the extreme volumes of gas building up in my gut as a result of the oozy tumour.

Yesterday I walked into our bedroom to say good morning to Tracey (I’m waking up at ridiculous hours due to the steroids) and as I walked the corner of the bed a tremendous fart was released. As usual I sheepishly said excuse me and went to lay on the bed to chat when a large belch escaped my diaphragm.

At this point I disgusted myself and started pretending to make non-stop burp and fart sounds and then in my mind pops the visual of Jabba the Hutt. That’s who I felt like in that moment, so I say something to the effect of Jabba the Hutt is back, we laugh, Tracey says ‘don’t ever lose your humour.’

Then she says, ‘by the way, it’s not Jabba the Hutt, it’s Jabba the Butt.’

I love her. She’s my foxy Princess Leia, and I’m her Jabba the Butt.

Again, I got the better of the deal.


Bulls. Balls. Beer.

Get Busy Dying