Can’t dupe The Tube

Lately, I’ve been thinking about The Tube. And how I need to remember that proper maintenance of The Tube is a task never to be taken lightly.

When I say The Tube, I’m referring to That Tube that begins with the upper entry hole (mouth) and ends with the lower exit hole (aperture of funk). And when you get right down to it, while we are very different in fundamental ways from sharks, millipedes and schnauzers, we are very similar to them and every other multi-celled animal on this planet in that job one of our daily existence is always the same simple task: the stuffing of stuff into The Tube.

We humans may at first appear to be truly dazzling creatures, but really, all of our snazzy extras are nothing more than valuable options from The Manufacturer, bestowed upon us with the one true purpose in mind: feeding The Tube. Our arms, legs, brains, senses are all part of a wondrous package that is justified and rewarded when its owner-operator is able to somehow procure, say, a ripe papaya, and stuff that juicy morsel into The Tube. In a matter of hours, the agreeable, nutritious material that has been put into The Tube will be processed and pushed out. The Tube is functioning. The Tube is happy. And then, it sends out signals for more.

The Tube is very much in control. And The Tube doesn’t work for The Brain. It’s the other way around. Forget at your peril.

My 77-year-old dad forgot recently and, as a result, got his poor old senior self into some peril. He had noticed a lump in The Tube a few months ago, but it didn’t seem like a big deal. He felt it, probed it, and heard the message coming from The Tube, which was “hey man, this ain’t right.” But then Dad, making the kind of sloppy mistake that turns today’s septuagenarians into tomorrow’s fertilizers, listened to The Brain’s message, which was not the same message as The Tube’s. “Hey, it’s not that big of a deal,” said The Brain. “It doesn’t hurt or anything, and you’ve been seeing so many doctors over the last months, go ahead, give yourself a break, blow this off for a while.”

By now, you see where this is going. Straight to the operating room.

Fortunately for my dad, our species has advanced in its powers of Tubal maintenance to the point where we now have teams of highly skilled worker drones who are able to enter the domain of The Tube, cut out the areas of Tube that have gone bad, sew it back up, and say, “There! Now, let’s all go out and throw some cocktails down this talented Tube of ours!”

In this regard, we’re much better off than millipedes.

On his first day out of the hospital, Dad celebrated by throwing a chocolate milk shake down The Tube. The Brain said, “Yippee!” His Tube was probably not as jubilant.