A prisoner of my own dung poo

Random thought of the day:
I was working my little fingers off today, as I often do, when a thought leaped into my head. There, seemingly cut from whole cloth, shiny and new was a revelation. When martial arts masters have to take a dump, as we all must 'do,' can they be said to be meditating on the ancient and noble art of "Dung Poo?" Not sure where, exactly, that came from. I think I just pulled it out of my ass, really, but now it won't leave me alone.

Today's ten minute rant: Can you be a prisoner of success?
I was wandering past an AT&T service person as he was working on a junction box of some sort, today. He was dressed comfortably for the heat and listening to the radio as he worked. As I walked past I heard the talk show host lament the fact that he, "...is a prisoner of [his] own success." Oh. woe-is-you. You sanctimonious prick. How can anyone who is genuinely successful in the vocation of their choice be considered a 'prisoner!' I'm fairly certain that he chose to be a nationally syndicated radio show host, and there's not a beefy guy named Karl holding a gun to his head screaming, "more controversy, bitch!" Somehow I just can't find room in my soul to feel sorry for him. I do hope that the next time this comes up he's trying to relate to a homeless guy. Tell your average bum on the street, "I can relate. I mean, I'm not homeless or anything, but I'm a prisoner of my own success (whimper, whine, puppy-dog eyes)," and I'm pretty sure they'll educate you in the real meaning of 'bum rush.'