If it's possible to feel sorry for a chair, I feel sorry for the Tongue Chair. Sure, he's living the life when empty. People see him and grin, chuckle, momentarily forget they have three quarterly reports due in 10 minutes and their wife is probably cheating on them with the stay-at-home dad two blocks over. But what about when someone sits down? That poor SOB. I mean, when I eat something that makes me want to projectile vomit, I say it tastes like hot buttered ass. Thankfully though, I don't actually know how accurate this statement is. Can't say the same for the Tongue Chair. Even the heavy duty marine-grade vinyl his taste buds are made out of can't possibly diminish the ick and tang of gluteal cheeks and crack. As much as my job sucks, and as much as I'm dreading the legal repercussions of body slamming Mr. Mom when I see him at the playground on Sunday, I can at least be thankful I'm not living my life as a glorified ass cushion. Huh. Thanks Tongue Chair. That's the second time today you've made me smile.