I do not know why it is this chair. Perhaps it is posessed by the souls of 1,000 dead samurai warriors (called forth by the mystic powers of my katana known as “Ted from Accounting”). Perhaps it is it’s molding, and the way the chair fits to my asthetically pleasing tushi. But whatever the reason might be, know this…
Every freakin’ time I sit down in this chair, your chicken boy has to pee.
It’s really unsettling. I don’t understand how this simple accessory has gained such masterful control of my bladder, but it has. And it must be stopped before it is too – late ---- Uh oh.
Be back with a mop. 