I Sh*t You Not.

If you've not had your lunch, I urge to to wait until you've done so before you read any further. If you have, or care not to regard this warning, read on. I am not writing this for shock value or to be plain-old gross. Consider it a case study, exploring the colossally languid or the perverseness of abject poverty.

Two things separate us from the animal kingdom. The first is, of course, our creative ways of killing each other and the other is indoor plumbing. Cats bury, monkeys throw, dogs sniff and nibble -- we flush. At least most of us do. My sister, on occasion would carry on a phone conversation on the shitter and not flush, lest her friend realize she was backing one out. (What the hell is the mute button for, anyway?) Of course she'd never remember to go back and flush, leaving wholesome goodness floating for the next. AAAAARghhh.

Anyway, John, an acquaintance of mine, is a plumber. Somehow he got into shop talk with us at my friend's daughter's birthday party. He recently went on a job deemed 'urgent' by the client. Apparently the gentlemen's toilet wasn't working for the past three weeks.

John flipped the lid to find a substantial amount of human waste. "Why didn't you call us sooner?" asked John.

Chances are the man wasn't prepared to pay for the services. John got started with the task and found it daunting. He started moving things around to give himself some working room and started to move one of those picnic coolers, opening the lid to see if it was empty. Unfortunately, it wasn't. It was filled to the rim with excrement. Apparently, when the toilet bowl was full, Mr. Shitpants would scoop out the a few layers and dump it into the cooler.

Immediately upon hearing this, it alternately made my Top Ten lists for Hilarity and Repulsion.

Now we've all had some degree of toilet problems, and as intelligent beings, we resolve them as quickly as possible (like when I plugged up my wife's friend's toilet last summer - and she went in there to unplug it before her friend noticed). This guy waited three weeks. Twenty-one days of pissing and shitting amounts to a heck of a lot of waste.

"I would have left," I told him. "Did you leave?"
"If I don't do the job I don't get paid," he replied.

So then, my friend John was left to toil with gallons full of this fat, stupid f*ck's digested Cheez-its and Cokes. Being poor sucks, no doubt, but at what point does the common-sense valve cease to function? Does it deteriorate along with self-esteem or with abandoned hope? In either case, I would like to offer to this 300 pound shitting machine with a minimal capacity for resourcefulness several solutions which might avert a repeat of his vile offense:
  • Shit at a friend's house. If you are friendless, try a fast-food restaurant. Customer's only? Scrounge up 78 cents from the couch, head over to said restaurant, get the small fries and a water. Set the tray on a table before you mosey over to the bathroom to drop anchor.
  • Shit in the woods. Rummage through your neigbor's garbage can for yesterday's newspaper for wiping material. Walk to the edge of town and find a big bush to squat behind. Find the Ms. Manners column and wipe away the residue.
  • Adult diapers. This might require some shoplifting, but there's more dignity in that than there is in the stunt you pulled off. Piss and shit yourself in comfort without having to wait for the commercial break on Springer.
  • Do it yourself colostomy kit. There's no nerve supply to that region, so you won't feel a thing beyond the initial incision. All you need is a sharp pair of pinking shears, duct tape and bags from your local convenience store.
  • Churches are pretty welcoming. I doubt there's a clergyman out there who'd turn a defecating Christian.
  • Go to the zoo, find the wussiest animal's cage and inhabit it. Grab a marker to cross out the word 'weasel', and write your name above it. Take off your clothes and run around shitting at your leisure. The zoo keepers won't catch on for a few days.
  • Your local pub is a great place to shit. Go on one of those whacky collegiate party nights with the 25 cent drafts. Those loosen you up a bit, both personality-wise and bowel-wise.
  • Supermarkets have bathrooms, too. I know ordinarily you make a beeline for the heavily salted snacks, but they're generally near the entrance and they don't give a shit if you shit.
  • Portapotties can be found near construction sites and in some public parks. Sure, they're a little stinky, but again, it can't be any worse than the shit-farm you grew at home.
  • Second run movie theatres only cost $1.50. Go see any shitty J-Lo or Sandra Bullock bomb, and slip off to seclusion during the previews.
The possibilities are endless. The inexcusable idiocy you perpetrated on your fellow man can be avoided with a bit of ingenuity and creative crapping.

I can only hope that he take heed.


I "Wonder"...

There were two things I promised myself when I started having children:
One - That they would never have to refer to me as "my real dad," or "my weekend dad." and
Two - That I would answer all of their questions as accurately and truthfully as I can.

Promise number one is pretty easy. All I have to do is weather the slings and arrows their mommy occasionally unleashes, but number two can be downright taxing; particularly when they hit their inquisitive stride at age 3. Needless to say, on occasion you have to resort to "I don't know, buddy. I really don't know." Usually, I give the O-Dog the old "Winter solstice is when the Earth tilts so the sun's rays don't hit the earth as directly..." treatment but I'll have to say the other day he stumped me.

A friend of mine gave me Alex Ross' Mythology since I'm into art. The O-Dog is into superheroes lately, so my wife sat with him to thumb through it.

O-Dog Who's this, mommy?
Mom That's Wonder Woman.
O-Dog Oh. Wonder Woman. This is Wonder Woman, daddy.
Me That is Wonder Woman, Rock.
O-Dog (Pause) What is she wondering?

Of course we had a good laugh at this, in a "cute things little bastards say" vein. But then I pondered the dozens of possible answers I could give him, as if any man could ever do so.

  1. "She's wondering if her her butt looks big in that outfit."
  2. "She's wondering if she should get a breast reduction."
  3. "She's wondering if that cow Sue Richards is hotter than she is."
  4. "She's wondering if she should give up her career and start thinking about a family."
  5. "She's wondering whether or not she should trade in the invisible jet and get a something a little more sensible (in case she does settle down and start a family)."
  6. "She's wondering if she came across a bit too bitchy at the last Justice League meeting."
  7. "She's wondering if it would be "un-superheroine" to get a tasty belly-button ring."
  8. "She's wondering if she really needs another pair of shoes..."
  9. "She's wondering if she's "settling" for Aquaman, or if Superman will ever come around.
  10. "She's wondering if she makes as much money as Batman. And if not, why the $#@* not?!
The best I could do was, "Buddy. she's wondering where all the bad guys are."


"E.T." Now Phoning Home with Unlimited Minutes

Every once in a while, American society embraces new products and/or technology with the fervor that a shithawk embraces bagel scraps in a supermarket parking lot. Some trends, like the microwave, are pretty benign, unless of course you're feeding your family uninspired meals from it's sauce stained innards on a nightly basis.

SUVs definitely came back to bite us in the ass with a vengeance, as some of us had to dip in to our kids' college savings to fill the f*cking tank. I remember when everybody started jumping on that bandwagon. I used to work with this hot little biscuit named Pam. She was about 5'1" and weighed about 109 lbs. and had her heart set on getting a GMC Jimmy. "Pam, what the hell do you
need one of those things for? Aren't they for independent contractors?" She got it anyway.

The latest gadget that really creases me is the ubiquitous cell phone. Originally, the cell phone weighed as much as 2 lbs., worked for only a half an hour and retailed for $4,000. Basically, only CEO's and VIPs carried them. Nowadays, most phones weigh slightly more than a sizeable booger, and every inbred from Oregon to f*cking Kentucky has one.

I'll admit, I put my time in the trenches. My mom was terminably ill, so I wanted to call her every day from every where. Then I got married and started having kids, and the wife wanted me readily available in case anything came up. Well, something came up once, and the goddamned thing was out of reception. After that, I found I was spending $50 a month just to be at my wife's beck and call. "Where are you? WE'RE SUPPOSED TO BE THERE IN TEN MINUTES!" Or the last straw, when I was on my way to play hockey. "THE KIDS ARE DRIVING ME NUTS. DO YOU HAVE TO PLAY HOCKEY THREE TIMES A WEEK!"

Ask my friend Doug about that one. I gave him my phone and asked him to heave it at the next mailbox we drove past.

Needless to say, this pesky little gadget has usurped public decorum and decency since it reared itself on our ugly heads. I thought I'd share the five biggest reasons I detest them.

#1 Driving
This is a no-brainer. Especially those a*sholes that dissimulate its usage, since driving while talking became illegal. Yo, F*CKHEAD, it's illegal for a a reason. Tell your wife or husband you'll see them when you get home.

#2 Psychotic Monologuists
Particularly high chafe factor goes to the pissed off girlfriend who is walking down my street swearing at whomever the f*cking poor unfortunate soul on the other line is while I'm trying to put my children in the car. Listen, Shaneequah, I know you got a rough deal, but if you don't stop the swearing, I'm going to jam that phone in your ass (right after I call 9-1-1 so you can get yo'self an ambulance to take you somewhere to have it surgically removed). Also, why doesn't the a*shole on the other line say "Bitch, you crazy," and hang up? Chances are they're walking past a day care unleashing their own share of profanities.

#3 Check-Out Chatterbox
It's bad enough I have to cringe at the $138 worth of crap you are about to put in your body and that of your family's while standing behind you at the supermarket, but could you please make the painful experience a bit more abbreviated by shutting the f*ck up, paying for your sh*t and getting out of my sight? It is painfully rude for you to gab away while fumbling for your chequebook, instead of acknowledging the hard working clerk that just rang up your case of generic soda pop and hamburger helper.

#4 "Paging Dr. Herman"
Whether you're in a boring college course, a movie theatre, a sh*tty fundraiser your wife dragged you to, or your wimpy ass kid's chorus recital, turn off your goddamned phone. I care not to hear that clever little personalized ringer that only you find amusing. Other people might actually be interested in what you obviously have very little regard for. When your son Jimmy's career takes off and he's packing them in singing torch songs for the "fellas" in the Florida Keys, you'll be sorry you weren't more attentive to his budding career. Do us all a favor: If you think some dire emergency might arise that warrants your immediate attention, stay home and wait for the call.

#5 Dinner for Three

I stopped at a coffee shop last night and saw a table of six young college age, esoteric hipsters - three of whom were either engaged on conversations on their phone or fidgeting with all the crappy little features. If you make arrangements to go hang out with someone, shopping, dinner, a walk in the park, leave the goddamned phone at home. If the person is cool enough or special enough to dedicate spending time with, then the social situation doesn't call for further entertainment or conversation for you from a third non-present party. I have seen girls amble through an entire store together without exchanging two words to each other. As in scenario #2, it is very likely that the other two skanks they were on the phone with were probably in the middle of a mall-walk themselves. Very, very uncool.

Then there's the a*shole at the rock concert, calling his hessian friend during Journey's encore of "Don't Stop Believing..." the jerk at the bus stop rattling off sports scores to his buddy... the 15 year old making unnecessary calls just so that his friends could see her parents got her one... the drunk frat boys and hussies taking pictures of each other and showing them, as if they don't already know what they f*cking look like... the jackass parent who gabs away while absent-mindedly taking their kid's report card from the teacher at open house and not discussing the kid's inattentiveness in class...


There's a Ferret in My Asshole!

I finally remembered where the line "The dead LIVE!" was from. It was Sam Kinison, referring to what I believe was the resurrection of Jeebus. Not that I spent the 80s and 90s watching non-stop comedians, but the ferret line is also from a comic, describing his hemorrhoids to his doctor. I thought it was funny then, and it's twice as funny now that it actually applies (though in an attempt to be original, I told mine that I felt as though I was "shitting cacti."

I spent yesterday evening sitting in a bathtub, trying to relieve what I described to my wife as S.P.S. (Sore Pooper Syndrome). Like anything, the anus is susceptible to wear and tear. Thirty-eight years of passing feces through a small passage can take it's toll on a small orifice, and mine is no exception. I remember it started on a trip to Europe, where my cooley was starting to itch non-stop. I attributed it to traveling, perhaps sub-standard toilet paper, and the general uncleanliness that accompanies prolonged travel, but even a good rinse in the bidet didn't assuage the discomfort. Damn.

That wore off after a while until a few years later, when I broke my collar bone and was put on medication. Apparently, painkillers and other assorted goods end up giving your crap the density of dried out Play-Doh. After three or four days of being bound up, (an expression I heard as a kid, but never experienced) I decided to give it the old Lamaze treatment, of breathing, standing up and flexing every muscle from my sternum to my knees to clean out my innards. It worked, but, like giving birth, it tore stuff up (hemorrhoids, I came to find out later, are also produced by the pushing women do while giving birth).

After that, the itch returned, but now it was accompanied by the occasional crimson blot on my premium blend shit tickets. Great, now my asshole is bleeding. Normally, this is cause for alarm, but I put two and two together and realized what the cause was. I thought it best not to talk about it to anyone:

"By the way, did your asshole ever bleed?" or
"Hey doc. Everything's fine. No complaints, except that my asshole bleeds."

Pretty embarrassing stuff, especially in our inhibited culture.

Phase Three of the destruction of Prego's asshole came this weekend... No blood but, "Goddamn, what the f*ck is this pain all about?!" I don't make a habit of twiddling around with the poop-chute in the shower, but I was curious. What the hell hurt so much? As I washed out the crack with soap, I felt bumps where there shouldn't be bumps. Damn, now there's protrusion. Great. Immediately, my thoughts raced around colon cancer and other drastic maladies. I attributed it to the progressive deterioration of what was once a completely functional and pain-free anus.

At this point, I guess I have to resort to sending my wife out to buy Preparation H, to save me the embarrassment. Heck, she can say she just gave birth. Eventually, I have to discuss polyps and whatnot with my general practitioner and subject myself to colonoscopies and other intrusive procedures that scientists are constantly trying to revolutionize. Yes, at some point, I hope that all they have to do is give me a milkshake and make me sit bare assed on a Xerox-like machine. Unfortunately, that kind of technology is not available, and I get to look forward to getting poked and prodded, making me feel like the bitch in the prison cell.

As for the other problem... drinking lots of water, eating lots of bran, and avoiding the usual diet of pizza and bananas might help for a while. And I guess I have to overcome my inhibitions and let a proctologist ply his trade.


"The dead live! The dead live!"

I've forgotten where I got that line. Maybe an old Simpsons episode, or a 'B' Horror flick. Wherever it originated, I'm not sure they had Freddie Mercury in mind,
though the flamboyant late-great made an appearance at Skip's Annual Halloween Party. Among the revellers present were a coked out Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks, Schneider from "One Day at a Time," Richard Simmons, and the ubiquitous Pedro from "Napoleon Dynamite."

Halloween is something you never outgrow. I can't tell who was more excited this year, The O-Dog or my friend Skip. The O-Dog
danced from foot to foot, saying "I can't believe it's Halloween" over and over. Skip, on the other hand, drove his fiancee crazy, overtaking her back yard with a plethora of decorations, and spending the entire evening beckoning neighborhood trick-or-treaters to his porch.

The Fletch-Monster is a little too young to have bubbled with anticipation, but he caught on quickly, running from house to house repeating "twikoteet" as his 20 month old legs tackled every stoop on our block. Originally, I used him as daddy's little ringer, since he is too little for some of the sweets, but it gave me a great feeling to see him partake in the festivities.

It took having children, and my friend Skip's enthusiasm to swing me back to the Halloween fold. I'm not going to get into that new age inner-child crap, but once you're too old for trick-or-treating, or "too cool" to appear in public with a costume, you become what we call a "poopie pants," otherwise known as a "fuddy-duddy," "stick-in-the-mud," "old fogey," or "buzz-wrecker." You know who you are. You left your porch lights off.