Praising ALA, Continued
I often blog about crap in the figurative sense of the word, but this post is about the real kind. You know, the stuff you flush every morning, unless you're constipated. For those unfortunate sufferers, there's a recently developed yogurt product that contains a new kind of bacterial culture intended to make people more regular.
Well, you guessed it. I ate some of that yogurt. I don't know what the hell I was thinking. As if it's not bad enough that half the foods on America's supermarket shelves are made with high fructose corn syrup from genetically engineered plants, now I've got some weird new kind of bacteria running amuck in my gut. Did it make me more regular? Yeah, sorta. But ever since May, I've been shitting heaps of little round turds that look like rabbit pellets. I wonder if the yogurt makers put bunny DNA in the bacteria. I'm keeping a close watch to make sure I don't sprout whiskers or a fluffy white tail (and if I do, my faithful readers will be the first to know). Let this sad tale be a lesson to anyone who sees nothing wrong with putting strange new organisms in the world's food supply.
While I was trying to figure out what to do about it, I flipped through a book of nutritional advice and noticed that its recommended remedy for rabbit-pelletized doo-doo was milk thistle supplements and alpha lipoic acid (ALA). Naturally that made me think of a certain troll who worships at the altar of ALA. When we last visited the fascinating adventures of Deacon JBjr, he was passing the collection plate at the Curebie Church of Everlasting Conformity and exhorting the worshippers to bow before ALA's holiness.
Just out of curiosity as to whether the stuff had any worthwhile uses at all, I went to the health food store and bought a thirty-day supply of milk thistle and ALA, which I have been taking for the past month. Being a fair-minded person, if I had experienced any miraculous effects from ALA, I'd have given the Deacon a more impressive title. He could have become the Lord of the Loo, the Director of Dung, the Cardinal of Crap, or the Mullah of Manure. I would've tooted joyfully unto ALA while worshipping on the porcelain pew. The Curebie Church would have had its very own rapper on the crapper, singing an ode on the commode.
But sadly, ALA had no apparent effects. I'm still crapping little pebbles that look like they came from the bottom of a riverbed. This gives rise to two plausible alternative hypotheses: either those newfangled bacteria are super-tough little buggers, or ALA is, well, crap. I'm inclined to believe that ALA, although it may be loo-crative for those who sell it, is flushworthy. Sorry to be a party pooper, John.
Oh, and by the way, I'm still autistic. Which is a good thing. I would be seriously pissed off if ALA turned me into a sheep.
** this blog is a baa-free zone **