Saturday, October 3, 2009

Egypt's Poop Wonderland

Monday, July 09, 2007
...And the waters of the Nile ran...brown.
Current mood: crappy
Category: Travel and Places
I was so excited to be taking my first and only trip to Egypt . It's been a lifelong dream of mine. In going over my list of "things to pack" recommended by the tour group; I came across a strange entry. Toilet paper. Don't they use toilet paper in Egypt ? Why do I have to bring a roll of my own since the tour stressed that the hotels were superb. Also on the list was Imodium AD. I had toilet paper handy and threw a roll into the suitcase -- but I'd never used Imodium AD and had none -- and promptly forgot about it. I was going to spend 15 days in glorious, exotic Egypt !

There was also the customary travel and cultural warnings. Don't go out alone if you're female. Dress in light colors and more conservatively. Stay hydrated because the temperature can get above 125°F. Don't eat any dairy because they don't pasteurize milk. In retrospect, this casual phrase should have been written: DON'T EAT DAIRY BECAUSE YOUR BOWELS WILL VOMIT THEIR CARGO AT A SPEED CLOSE TO WARP FACTOR NINE!!!!!!!!!

When we landed after a 10-hour flight, everyone was tired, cranky and hungry. We checked into our hotel, went to dinner and went to bed. The next morning we had a wake-up call at 5:00am, breakfast at 6:00am and we hit the road by 7am. You travel early in the mornings or early evening because in the middle of the Sahara Desert -- it gets Satan-scrotum, scorchingly-hellish-hot midday. I was so exhausted and jet-lagged from the night before that I completely forgot the "refrain from dairy" caveat. That evening, I had two spoonfuls of pudding and then cursed myself mid-spoonful for forgetting.

The Sphinx and pyramids were spectacular. I was fine. Day after that? Fine. I felt I'd dodged the bullet. So with the Cairo portion of our trip over, we boarded a plane to Luxor to see The Valley of The Kings. I was traveling solo so the tour company matched me with a female roommate -- Helene. Worthy of mention is the fact that thus far -- I felt no discomfort from the two teaspoons of pudding days ago. Nada.

Imagine our delight when we were assigned one of the few rooms that overlooked the Great Nile River ! We opened our hotel room door and began hugging and jumping up and down for joy! All of a sudden with no warning whatsoever, the contents of my fartpipe went from solid to liquid. It happened as suddenly as the final episode of The Sopranos ended. Instantaneously. No warning whatsoever. No pre-gurgling, no pre-cramps. Hot Eau de Poo.

I stopped mid-jump and I guess the expression on my face said or something close to "heart attack" because Helene said, "Are you ok?" I grabbed my guts and made for the bathroom with little, tiny Geisha steps because my butt-cheeks were clenched tighter than the Virgin Mary's legs to prevent the dread crème de cacao accident. Once in there, I realized that I'm wearing a jumpsuit that zips up the back! FUCK! I finally got the zipper down whilst dancing "The Merry Poo Jig" and I think I was shitting before my ass touched the seat. I was crappin' at a speed close to light. Apparently there was a little, itty-shitty, pissed-off Charlton "Moses" Heston in my colon commanding Yul "Pharaoh Ramses" Brenner to let his chocolate people go -- and make haste! So let it be written, so let it be DONE! And the poo Jews were liberated from Egypt ! Every last one. My poo runneth over.

This lasted for about 20 minutes. Helene kept knocking and asking if I was ok and all I could manage was a groan. When I exited, I was too ill to even be embarrassed by Helene undoubtedly hearing the 140 decibel earth-shattering-space-shuttle-blastoff shit I just took. I was shaking all over, bathed in sweat and dangerously close to tears. I apologized and then I lay across my bed.

Apparently the microbes have a gestational period. The next day at breakfast, we compared stories with other erupting travelers. We were traveling with 2 busloads of tourists and both buses were equipped with a bathroom. Both bus bathrooms smelled like a rotten camel carcass left in the sun. I'm talking O DEAR! One bus driver actually locked the john and told us it was broken because he got sick of the smell. Eventually, he was forced to unlock it or risk having to clean shit off his seats. The extreme heat, the vile diarrhea took its toll on us all. You'd take Imodium and be fine for a day -- then the medicinal butt plug would fail and you'd be back on the commode singing "Kumbaya." Someone's shitting My Lord, Kumbayaaaaaaaaaaaah!

My ass was a Bosco-chocolate syrup factory and I turned every toilet into my own desert poo oasis. I have a horrible fear of crapping in public restrooms from my past "poop post-traumatic stress disorder" but I had no other choice. Technically I guess I could have crept behind the Sphinx or some other national monument -- but who knew the punishment if caught? This is a Muslim country after all. A rectal beating with a cane? Anal amputation? I wasn't going to risk it.

By the time we got to the Old Cataract Hotel in Aswan, I was sore and in need of some Rectal Chapstick because my anus was swollen to twice its normal size from overuse. I'm sure my butt lips looked like I had gone 15 rounds with Mike Tyson punching me in the rectum. The further South down the Nile we traveled, the fewer creature comforts we had. When I rang housekeeping for some extra toilet paper, she showed up with 3 of these tiny one-ply 1/4" thick rolls. I'm used to the giant, bunny-fluffy 2-ply 4-1/2" double rolls! What the fuck is this? Nearly all the toilets had a hose attached to them but who wants to go to the Rectal Car Wash every visit? I didn't carry a hand towel to dry off anyway. I pictured Gomer & Goober Pyle asking with a Southern twang, "You want an anal-wax with that, Ma'am?"

I began trading meds on the black market with our fellow travelers. Bartering. I've got Advil for some Imodium! Do you have any Kaopectate for some Midol? Imodium for Benadryl? Anyone got any Preparation H? Not just me -- others were coming down with moderate to severe bleeding hemorrhoids from the 1999 Lalapoo-pooza Crapfest.

By the time we got down to Abu Simbel, the worst was over for me -- but only beginning for others. There was a really rude lady on my bus -- and I had witnessed her obstreperous harangue to a bartender the night before. I overheard her yell, "Don't you speak English!? What the hell is the matter with you people?" Ahhhh…The Ugly American rears her ugly little head. Sigh. You are in a foreign country and the entire world does not speak English Missy. But, she got her just deserts when we arrived back at the hotel because as our bus was pulling up (she was seating on the aisle) she leaned over her seat partner and barfed out of the bus window and as I looked over, I noticed a spreading brown pool emerging on the back of her pants. A befitting poo de grace. OOPS! Ms. High and Mighty had crapped her khakis! She shrieked, "IT'S COMING OUT OF BOTH ENDS!" I looked at her poor seat mate's face and he was beyond horrified. His expression was priceless. He wanted nothing more to do with Count(ess) Chocula. Judging from his expression, you'd have thought she'd crapped on his upper lip.

I tried my hardest not to laugh but I almost developed a hernia from trying to hold it in. After all, she was an unpleasant, malicious person so this assuaged my sotto voce giggling somewhat. And you know what? By the time the trip was over, that big roll of 2-ply, bunny-fluffy toilet paper I brought was g-o-n-e! Always listen to the tour company children. Always.

The good news is that I lost 10lbs on that trip and how many people can say that they crapped from Cairo to Nubia ? (In retrospect, probably lots.)

Currently reading:
What’s Your Poo Telling You?
By M.D., Anish Sheth
Release date: 26 April, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Why Does the Body of Christ Taste So Shitty????????
Current mood: peaceful
Category: Religion and Philosophy

NOTE: For those of you who don't know, I posted this blog last year and my site was recently attacked and a malicious code placed in the blog comments of my blogs regarding religion which rendered my site inoperable. So in the interests of free speech which is sorely in jeopardy under our current administration, I extend a hearty "fuck you" to the "wrong-wing" extremists...

If you are a Serial Christian, do yourself a favor and read no further...

Though I'm no longer a Christian, sometimes I wonder about the strange thoughts that occurred to me while in church with some big, fat, sweaty guy yelling at me about my sins while he eyed the godhead titties of the choir director. It was especially traumatic because I went to a predominantly black Southern Baptist church which is one step away from Pentecostal Snake Handling. Freakish. Seriously.

Yelling, eyes rolling up to the whites, screaming gibberish, falling out in the aisles, jumping up and down, the rending of clothing, and general mayhem which all seemed the fault of "The Mysterious Holy Spirit" which I wanted no part of since he made people spaz out in public. They drug one lady out by her arms, kicking and screaming with her dress hiked up over her hips and her girdle showing! Come to think of it, if she had vomited green bile and humped the crucifix -- we would've had the movie "The Exorcist" way before its time. Either that or unbeknownst to us -- we were attending Our Lady of the Sacred Epileptics Congregation.

Whenever I would look up at my mother when someone had one of these apoplectic fugues or conniptions, my mother would say, "Well they're just full of the Holy Spirit." "Well keep that seizure producing SOB away from me" was what I was thinking. I was a terrified child and to this day, the sound of gospel music freaks me out. I didn't want the entire congregation to see my Underoo's. After being forced to eat flavorless Jesus, the seizure producing Holy Spirit -- and I had no clue what the hell was up...

So, behold my twisted musings:

Why does the body of Christ have to taste so bland?

Hey folks! Why can't we at least have saltines or Wheat Thins? Wheat Thins even have fiber in them. So when you're trying to give birth to an oversized butt gherkin, and screaming to Jesus for assistance and/or relief, the thought may occur to you, "Next time, I'm having the high fiber Body of Christ!"

Or, what about those little frozen pizzas? You'd have your choice of flavors: "Mmmm...the body of Christ is spicy. He tastes of pepperoni and sausage. Jesus is one tasty savior! I love the basil & cheese Jesus with extra sauce...try it next time!" Trust me. Willing souls would be lined up around the block for a taste of Jesus.

If I'm expected to eat the body of Christ, why can't I have a choice of what part I want to eat? Does it always have to be crackers? "I'd like to have a wing and a leg of Jesus and hold the 'slaw please." Who said it had to be crackers? And if it does, can't we at least spread some Smuckers Jam on Jesus?

If I'm supposed to drink the blood of Jesus, why can't we make it more pleasant by turning it into a Jesus Tasting Festival? "This vintage of Jesus tastes awesome...fruity with the full body of Christ." Can you pass me a thigh of Jesus with some mashed potatoes and gravy please? Thanks."

Technically, the wine is supposed to only represent the blood of Christ so why does it always have to be red? Why can't we have an amusing Chardonnay or Rosé? I don't want a heavy port or Bordeaux first thing in the bleedin' morning! Or fuck it! Let's all just drink blood! Slaughter your pew neighbor and drink his blood.

If your church is too cheap to serve wine, and your only choice is grape juice; why can't I have grapefruit juice instead? Or orange juice? Juicy Juice makes a great cherry juice and its 100 percent Jesus Juice with no high fructose corn syrup and you get a full days supply of vitamin C too!

What if you don't like wine and crackers? Assuming that all of Jesus is simply delicious -- why aren't we allowed to explore the possibilities? "I'd like to try the toe jam of Jesus please" which probably tastes like the finest caviar. What about prime rib roast of Jesus with horseradish?

While we're on the subject, why does Jewish food taste as bad as the Body of Christ? I know he was a Jew but really! Ever tasted gefilte fish? Matzo? Who the fuck did the cooking for these unfortunate souls? Probably Mel Gibson.

Why does un-leavened have to mean flavorless? Instead of bitter herbs, what about a pot of collard greens & un-leavened corn bread and some fried catfish? Your suffering should be over with by now especially if you're supposed to be Gods chosen people! I'm beginning to think differently since he forces you to eat that shitty food.

I'd rather dine on a bucket of chum.

After the Mohel circumcises a little Jewish infant, what happens to the foreskin? Is that what those fried pork rinds are really made Soylent Green? They certainly don't taste like chicken and I thought babies were supposed to taste of chicken. What a gyp!

I shudder to think of where the idea for Hebrew National Hot Dogs came from? Penis of Jesus? Shudder.

Because of the shitty food factor, I truly wonder if Jesus was a black man because obviously Big Mama Mary's cookbook sucked. After all, former slaves made the diet of organs, guts, gonads, chitterlings (pronounced chiddlins), pig's feet, ribs and shit work! Where art thy culinary creativity?

Another reason I have questions about his ethnicity is if you ask ANY black man to die for the sins of the asshole that just beat him to shreds with a whip -- the reply would inevitably be, "Fuck those muthafuckas! Mary! Get the donkey! We out!"

What do we really know about Jesus? I'd like to cut thru the holy bullshit and see the real Jesus...and taste him too!
Please note that this blog has no "Vermin" category so I was forced to utilize the colorless, characterless category of "Blogging."

However this is not by choice.


I have no idea how the hell this happened -- but I have been besieged by...flies. Since I’m not crestfallen nor depressed at present and since I have not let the dishes go unwashed, nor the bodies of my ex-boyfriends pile up (as I prefer to leave them bleeding by the side of the road) I don’t understand my present (and I gag at the word) infestation.

I did NOT bring home a bleeding, rotting corpse of deer, buffalo, moose, steer, goat nor yak.

I am not using offal to decorate. I prefer to leave that sort of thing to Jack the Ripper, Ed Guin and Jeffrey Dahmer. The Martha Stewarts of Corpse & Abattoir Decor.

I opine -- I may have been pitched into The Amityville Horror cosmos.

A few weeks ago, as I was in bed moaning in pain (I’m having a hysterectomy in June so no worries) -- I noticed a faint buzzing noise. I pulled the covers up over my head but I could STILL hear it! I finally pulled my bedroom curtains aside to discover...a lone bee. I have no idea how he/she gained access but I pulled out my trusty can of Raid and ended his/her confusion and hive-separation anxiety with a quick burst of Mercy-from-a-Can.

Note: I know bees have been dying by the millions but the little fucker was in my bedroom...IN MY ROOM!!! Where I sleep --and where my little dog plays with her toys.

I don’t kill them when I encounter them outside...I just karate kick them as I’ve seen my courageous friend Christina do. She’s a venerable Hong Kong Phooey when it comes to drop-kicking flying insects.

Sometime late last week I DID notice, when I got home from work that a fly did enter my domicile. I faintly remember thinking, "I’ll get the little fucker later when he/she begins buzzing around a light bulb for a luminescence fix."

But those that know me personally know that I have a shortbus-riding puppy named "Claudine" who smokes meth all day when I’m at work and tends to have her daily meth-induced fit when I walk in the door so my attention was averted immediately upon my arrival...and the fly...momentarily forgotten. My kitchen faces the dying sun in the East (in the evenings) so the last vestiges of daylight fade as the darkness descends.

This past Friday, I settled in for a relaxing weekend but before the sun had even set -- I noticed an abundance of flies on my kitchen window screen. I grabbed my Can of Death (as flies do not deserve mercy) and began my murder spree. I killed them all and swept their little bodies up and discarded them.

End of story...or so I thought.

This morning I appeared to be "fly-free" and I took out the trash just to insure my weekend euphoria.

But at about 2pm, I went to my computer and noticed double the amount of flies on the kitchen screen -- so thus began another killing orgy. I got about 30 little dead bodies, and swept them up (again) and tossed them in the outside trash. But hours later...another 40 soldiers showed up in a troop surge! What the fuck?! There was NO trash in my apartment at all at this point! Everything that could have bred flies or their wiggly little scion was gone!


I didn’t leave floating turds on Spring break partying in my toilet!!!

So, I killed the next generation. I did this two more times today and still there are the few lone individuals who don’t know the war is lost and over...flying around trying to find fallen comrades or the last of the Vietnamese-fly prostitutes. They apparently don’t hear the faint buzzing of their dying compatriots nor heed the felled --trying to end their agonizing death throes by bash their brains out against window sills, computer screens, TV screens, light bulbs and glass panes.

I have checked behind the trashcan to make sure I didn’t accidentally miss the can and discard an egg yolk on the floor or carpet. I’ve looked everywhere for hidden puppy turds...(and goat carcasses.) Claudine hides them herself. I’ve never had a dog so "anal" that instead of scratching on the door...prefers "turd-hide-and-go-seek!"


Since nightfall, I have sent at least another 10 confused and slow-flying flies to meet their Lord of the Flies and buried them at the outside Arlington National Cemetery.

Could the one lone fly terrorist have caused this...carnage?

It’s 12:39am...and the forest is quiet...finally.

I’ll report back if the Congs make another assault.

Vaya Sin Moscas Mi Amigos...Sin Moscas.

9:00am: Morning update: So far this morning four lone soldiers attacked and were brought down by heavy sniper fire.

I shall be a vigilant sentry against villainy on this beautiful Sunday morning.

12:32pm: The body count is now up to 8...oh shit! Another one. Must reload...Charlie is relentless.

4/9 -- Update: Peace is restored...finally

For the single person, there is no turkey and all the trimmings. Christmas dinner is heating some Campbell's Soup for One and eating chewing gum for dessert.

No wonder suicides go up around the holidays.

Merry Fuckin' Christmas bitches!
Currently listening:
Have a Holly Jolly Christmas
By Burl Ives
Release date: 01 June, 1995

Camembert Superman

There is a Holy Prophet in our midst CAMEMBERT MAN!! I'm quite serious.
Current mood: confused
Category: Dreams and the Supernatural
I had a really weird morning...

I got up at 5:45am to be at the market when they opened because, I hate people. Especially the bellicose, rude and angry day-before-Thanksgiving shoppers. Since I only needed cream cheese and Martinelli's Sparkling Apple/Grape Juice (I like it when I have a hangover), I could be in and out in no time flat. Which I am happy to declare is exactly what occurred as I am making some tasty desserts for tomorrow.

Now the weird part. Upon leaving the Ralph's Grocery (a fine establishment by the way) someone off to my right screamed at the top of his phlegm-enhanced voice, "COKE! COKE! COKE!" I heard it continuously until I got out of the parking lot.

Before I reached my fucked-up wreck of a Honda my thoughts were as follows:

1. How nice this somewhat disheveled man who smells of Camembert, mildew and a backed-up septic tank is trying to tell me this tasty beverage is on sale and I'm about the miss this fortuitous occasion?

2. He thinks I'm a dealer and he wants coke?

3. He prefers to read the Ralph's circular aloud...really loud and Coca-Cola IS in fact on sale?

4. He has given up crack and now prefers cocaine and is screaming, "COKE! COKE! COKE!" to express his joy?

5. He is ON crack, coke AND Coca-Cola?

6. He is in fact reading the Wall Street Journal's stock page and the Coca-Cola stock has hit rock bottom and he is attempting to alert everyone in a 4 mile radius of this momentous event?

7. He wants someone to assist him across the street to the 7-11 and purchase a Big Gulp of Coca-Cola for him because they discriminate against people who smell of Camembert? (I even would have offered to show him the many uses of an empty Big Gulp cup. Portable bathroom.)

8. He is just an escapee from a lunatic half-way house...a half-way house where they use Camembert instead of roll-on or stick deodorant?

(Note: At present my dog is running around the living room at top speed and slowing only to chasing her tail. I think she needs Thorazine. I suspect she smokes crack all day while I'm at work.)

9. He is trying to inform the denizens exiting the market that Coca-Cola goes well with Camembert?

10. He is actually that Reverend that got caught buying meth and a male prostitute and this is the unfortunate reality of his life today or is he in fact Mark Foley?

They say the insane are close to divine however I don't remember reading any biblical passages where any of the prophets smelled of Camembert, mildew and leaky septic tank...and were oddly obsessing over some form of Coke. "Behold before thine eyes! Bear witness to the straw and lines of pure white coke...and the angel of the Lord reeked of Camembert...and well, we'll just throw in some Eau de Mildew & Old Fermented Feces. And the angel shouted unto mankind, COKE! COKE! COKE!" And the people were confounded, confused and scratched their heads (and sometimes balls) in confusion.

Thus Sayeth The Lord

So have a wonderful Thanksgiving but I don't think I'll be coming near any Camembert.

The Wizard of Oz on Weed

Ever watch The Wizard of Oz high on weed????????
Current mood: nostalgic
I remember some 20 years ago -- me and a friend smoked a shitload of weed and watched The Wizard of Oz and we came to the following conclusions:

1. The Wicked Witch was a bulldyke. She was stalking Dorothy relentlessly and calling her, "My pretty." Plus she tried to injure anyone who came near her. Kinda obvious observation in retro, huh? Miss Gulch? Same. Wanted some Auntie Em hooch.

2. The Tin Man and The Cowardly Lion were flaming homo's because they were ALWAYS crying like bitches about something. The Cowardly Lion had little red bows in his hair and a fuckin' Superfly perm after he gets all gussied up in order to see The Wizard for Christ's sake! Little red bows? ON A DUDE?

3. The Cowardly Lion & The Tin Man were lovers. How could you miss that? Ever ass-grabbing, hugging and weeping.

4. We speculated on the benefits and disadvantages of having a dick made of straw, tin or a small furry lion cock. We were riding tin just in case you were wondering.

5. When my friend looked at me with bloodshot eyes and asked me why there were no black people in The Wizard of Oz, quick as a flash I said, "Who do you think the fucking Flying Monkey's represent?!" Extra helping of fucked up, sure -- but in 1939 Hollywood they always had to have The Black Villain.

6. We shared the fantasy of midget orgies because if you got fisted by a would probably feel like a really big dick.

7. They were all junkies. The lot of them -- hence the poppies (heroin) and snow (cocaine) falling from the sky. No wonder they skipped all the way to Oz. It's called a speedball children. Yes, and Toto too!

8. The Lollypop Guild never got any pussy. Look at their expressions. The Lullaby League were little tutu-wearing under age cock teases.

9. Dorothy, being the heroin/crack whore that she was -- would probably be reduced to selling pussy to get out of Oz. Clicking your feet together just fucks up your shoes dear. You're surrounded by horny dwarves. They'll pay. Trust me. Suck the Snasage.

10. Speaking of horny dwarves – Glenda, The Good Witch looked like a wedding cake and we had no doubt of what she commanded of The Munchkins once everyone left Munchkinland. How many was she hiding under that giant dress? Why do you think she has that ultra high-pitched twittery laugh?

11. Judging from the difficult time Dorothy had saying good-by to The Scarecrow, we knew -- we were absolutely certain of her copulation with The Orowheat Boy.

12. Toto should have pissed on the apple-throwing trees.

13. Toto should have pissed on The Wicked Witch of the West.

14. When set ablaze by The Witch why didn't The Scarecrow Stop! Drop! And Roll!? Richard Pryor didn't heed this little nugget of wisdom either.

15. Finally, we would have had to put the beatdown on Glenda The Good Witch for not giving us the shortcut in the first fucking place. Oh, you bloated pink cunt! You let me almost get killed by The Wicked Witch, Flying Monkey's, speedballs, and getting pimped by The Wizard, when I could have been home days ago? Scarecrow, hold my basket! I'm shoving that wand up her ASS!

If I've offended anyone for mutilating a classic film loved by young and old, have a nice, hot cup of Shut the Fuck Up!

…and kids…say no to drugs. A mind is a terrible thing wasted.


HOORAY FOR TITTIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Current mood: irate
Category: Life
Why oh why are titties such a huge deal here in the US? I came across the following article about the cover of Babytalk magazine:

In the second paragraph of the article, one reader says: "I was offended and it made my husband very uncomfortable when I left the magazine on the coffee table." Uh...yeah lady...he was uncomfortable because his dick was hard. It's called a boner. Say it with me, B-O-N-E-R. Newsflash: Men are attracted to orbs. They are hard-wired for this. This will never change. This is natural and necessary for the propagation of the species. You'd know this if you read books.

The nipple isnt even showing in the offending picture. The baby certainly looks happy. But to the baby -- its simply lunch.

Most European beaches are either nude or at the very least topless. Jamaica has a topless & nude beach, so do Bonaire & Aruba. Men and women in this country seem to be in a state of titty-denial. It's just a nice natural way to sunbathe. Why are Americans so tight-assed about seeing a titty? It's not a big deal. Hell, when I go on beach vacations, I set my knockers free. If you dont like it, dont look! As for the crucifixion of Janet Jackson for showing her titty at the Super Bowl? Think about it. The FCC made sweeping changes...all because of one titty. Aren't there more serious things to worry about in the world than a titty?

I saw a PBS presentation of Moll Flanders starring Alex Kingston some years ago and during a couple of love scenes; you got a glimpse of her titties. Now I expected the PBS crowd to be a bit more sophisticated...uh uh. PBS was scheduled to re-run this wonderful show and cancelled due guessed it. Outrage over those two brief shots of titty!

I'm a straight girl and I think tits are beautiful...well natural non-synthetic tits anyway. Small, medium, large or godhead...they're all beautiful. Ask your average straight OR gay man and they think the world of tits. But heaven forbid we show them anywhere else but in a porno movie or mag. Why not? What are we protecting our kids from? European kids grow up seeing tits on TV and they don't seem to be any worse for it.

Most American males had to subscribe to National Geographic to see a titty. the way...the last time I watched a show on the National Geographic channel...they had pixilated the titties of the autochthonous tribe of wherever.'s just a titty. Fatty, bouncy mammary glands. What have titties done to deserve such scorn and contempt? Did a titty bomb Pearl Harbor? No. Did a titty kill Jesus? No. Did a titty create the TV show Cop Rock? No.

Well maybe French kids are worse off for their titty exposure. Wearing berets, listening to accordion music and fuckin mimes. Who hasn't wanted to kick a mime in the nuts just to see his wordless ball-aching gestures? Maybe that's what corrupted their culture. The Naked Breast. I'd rather free my tits and eat good ole French fries than cover my tits and eat Freedom fries.

I still don't understand why a lot of women aren't satisfied with the tits nature gave you. Do you have two? Celebrate them! Some women aren't that fortunate! Ever hear of breast cancer? Don't mutilate your bodies to fit into some kind of unrealistic body image. Reject it. Send that boob job money to UNICEF or the Peace Corp and help save the world! Be happy with who you are. Love yourself as is.

Is the titty truly responsible for the fall of Rome or Western Civilization? Lets see...Osama, Hitler, Stalin, Pol Pot, Pinochet, Saddam, and Milosevic...not one titty in the bunch! Maybe we need MORE titties. Hell I bet the Middle East wouldnt be as fucked up if the men there weren't forced into fucking goats because their religion forbids a good titty fuck or Allah! Course I've never actually seen a goat titty...maybe they are more attractive than human titties. After all, who am I to judge? Cow titties are just plain weird looking. Maybe if Hitler, Stalin and his fellow mass murdering fuckheads could have benefited from sucking a few tits! If it would stop the wars of this world, Ill gladly sign up and volunteer my tits! Osama, don't blow that up, here...feast on this titty instead. Incidentally, I also heard Osama has a mad-crush-love jones on Whitney Houston. Hey Witney! Put the crack pipe down and do something for your country!

I read somewhere that there will never, EVER be peace in the world until power is shared equally with women/aka The Titties. This would seem to make sense in light of the fact that the Middle East is always in a state of low boil. THEY NEED MORE TITTIES IN POWER!

So lift your glass of milk high in salute of TITTIES!!! Say it with me, "HOORAY FOR TITTIES!!!"

Friday, July 3, 2009

A Tale of Two Poos, Part 2

To continue my tale of human misery and woe:

So after all the labor pains, I felt a tug as I gave birth to my unholy ass suckling. There was no nurse or midwife to assist in the birth and whisk my butt bullion away and wrap him in swaddling clothes and pass out cigars either. Dead quiet. No splash. I was initially afraid to wipe for fear of seeing a splash of blood and seeing that fetal reptile peering out – the one that burst out of the thorax of John Hurt in the movie "Alien." I also didn't want to confirm the fact that I was probably hemorrhaging. I was scared. But nothing was there on the toilet paper. So as I got shakily to my feet, and pulled up my pants, I turn and looked down to behold the most extraordinary, fascinating piece of art deco poo craftsmanship ever. In appearance was like nothing I've ever seen. A tightly convoluted coil of uniform brown is what I beheld. A brain made of poop is what it looked like. It seemed fashioned by Fabergé in the most exquisite detail I've ever seen in poop. I gave birth to an ostrich-sized Fabergé egg! I just stood there agog and full of awestruck wonder. Enthralled, I wished for a stick to poke it -- to see if it had the hardness of freshly kilned earthen brown ceramicware. I just flushed my work of art. Who was I going to share it with?

How could my gastric juices and probiotic-filled intestines have fashioned this? Did I have little artistic Keebler Poop Elves working in my innards? I wanted to call The Mutter Museum to see if they were interested. I have not consumed anything from Taco Bell since the birth -- purely out of fear.

A note to my ever-faithful readers: I just wanted to let all concerned parties know that I daily consume fiber for breakfast and supplement my fiber intake by taking a dose of bulk fiber every night. Your concern for my colon warms my heart…and my ass. This is a tale of the preternatural so bear that in mind. An abhorrent anomaly of nature. I still refuse to carry personal lubricant.

To this day, I have an unnatural avoidance of poo. This stems -- I'm certain from a trauma that occurred in high school. Oddly enough, it was in the middle of my 5th period ceramics class. My stomach gave an unearthly lurch and I asked the teacher for the hall pass and found the bathroom in my particular building locked so I had to go to the next building. The bathroom was mercifully deserted and my need was fire. I ran into the very first stall and pulled down my pants.

Also worthy of note was the fact that I was also a part of the dance production team -- and I was wearing tights and a leotard under my pants and a shirt over that AND a jacket over that. Now I was hopping up and down trying to free myself from my prison of garments to release the steaming torrent flow of hot, molten liquid poo au jus. I had to remove my jacket -- then my button-down shirt -- then pull down my leotard --then my tights before I could even reach my underpants. Time was against me as the torrent of magma prepared for an eruption. I finally yank my pants down and sat -- and not a moment too soon. There was no time for the pleasantries and the conveniences of an ass gasket. I just sat and Mt. Vesuvius spilled her bounty. I was shaking and sweating. Wave after wave. Finally, as the lava slowed, I noticed a smell. But not of my own creation…oddly enough…it was of…vomit.

As I began to regain some semblance of normal consciousness, the smell of vomit overwhelmed me. I looked down between my legs to see if some freshman had ejaculated her lunch on the floor where my pants were pooled around my ankles. Nothing. I looked to the left of the toilet. Nothing. Right. Nothing. Then when I swiveled around…and nothing, but nothing could prepare me for what I beheld. The entire back of the toilet AND the seat on which my naked ass sat -- was painted in vomit.

I looked to the heavens for succor but my God was -- pointing and laughing at me. Deliver me. PLEASE! Let me wake to find myself safe in my bed and this was all a nightmare. I was mortified. Beaten. Humiliated. Laid waste by…well...waste.

I was seated in someone else's gut chunks. Does life get anymore fucked up than this? I immediately reached for the toilet paper and one thin, wispy sheet came out of the holder. There were no giant rolls back then. No ass gaskets. No toilet paper? Yes. Apparently life DOES, in fact, get more fucked up than this! So I scooped up what dignity I thought still remained; and with my pants around my ankles, went to the next stall, and there was nothing. No room or toilet paper in the inn. Jesus in the Manger didn't have it this fucking bad. The third stall proved bare as well as the forth and fifth stall. So I went for the course sandpaper-textured brown paper towels that the L.A. Unified School District saw fit to provide us with knowing that it would surely irritate the crap (excuse the pun) out of my sore assmeat only to be thwarted yet again! Yes. Life is now at its apex of "fuckedupness" and my humanity at its nadir.

I was faced with a choice that no pubescent teenaged girl should ever be faced with. Do I wipe the vomit from the ring of my ass -- or do I wipe my dripping asshole? I wanted to cry. I was helpless. Friendless. Alone in my wretchedness. Weighing my choices, I wiped my asshole. I don't know why. I gingerly pulled my clothes up and had to wait for the afternoon school bus as the strangers vomit dried around my ass ring.

I was bused from West Los Angeles to Van Nuys daily and the ride took an hour on the 405 freeway. So for an hour I…I marinated in the vomit of a stranger. Then I had a 20 minute walk home from the bus stop. I told no one. Not even my best friend. I was so humiliated, demoralized and stripped of vanity that I told no one…not even Phyllis -- and I told her EVERYTHING. I didn't even tell my mother. I got home, went straight to the restroom, stripped and took the longest shower known to mankind and bundled my clothes and shoved them in the washer on the hot cycle with half a box of detergent.

If you are acquainted with me personally, please don't take offense if I clean your toilet before using it. I have post-traumatic stress disorder. There are but a few scatological cognoscenti in this field. Me being one of them.

So, I am sincere in my avoidance to things the body seeks to rid itself of…especially poop. I almost barfed into my baby nephew's diaper when changing him. Mon Dieu! I had no idea that a little 5-month old baby on what is essentially a liquid diet -- could produce such butt sludge. After all, he was on formula, which is off-white in appearance and rice cereal, which is also off-white. WHERE THE FUCK DID THIS CHUNKY-PATINA GREEN PEANUT BUTTER POO COME FROM? I didn't feed him anything green. It wasn't like he ransacked my fridge whilst I slept and ate a plethora of collard greens! And MY GOD! The sheer volume astounded me. I have no children and this is on purpose.

People who have children always say, "Well it's not bad. It's like your own poop." HUH? WHAT? What on Earth makes you think I'm fond of my own? That's why they invented a wonderful product called toilet paper! I don't want to see it and I only check after wiping to make sure I'm clean. Then I used baby wipes for double protection against the dreaded skid mark. I don't look into the Kleenex after I blow and I don't look into the toilet after I'm done. Well until the birth of this particular butt neonate.

How can something that tastes so delectable come out so alien to the way it went in? The mystery still confounds me. The whole process. I only put it to paper to allay my fears and bewilderment. Ever see The Shawshank Redemption? Bet he suffers from post traumatic stress too.

I still owe props to Mark Saldana who wrote what is possibly the funnies poo blog ever: <>>Why Mark Saldana Hates The Yankees

A Tale of Two Poos, Part 1

After a night of drinking with a friend, and a late night/early morning trip to TacoBell…so begins my tale of woe:

My colon seems to adhere to a strict schedule. Once upon rising and once before bed. Well, this unholy Taco Bell butt burrito decided to make its blessed journey into the work. Fuck! I hate shitting at work! I almost never do. Well, I must have been in the bathroom for 45 minutes straining, grunting and bearing down. I sounded like I was in the labor room or at a Muscle Beach weight-lifting competition! I also pondered if all this 'bearing down' might cause a stroke and I wondered if my co-workers would find me stock-still on the floor of the bathroom with a turd half-in and half-out of my ass and my face frozen in a rictus of agony.

Would they laugh before calling 9-1-1? You bet they would!

Ever try to put your fist in your mouth? This turd had a Chupacabran thirst for ass blood and eldritch intelligence. I finally reached the conclusion that this turd was simply too big for my asshole and might have to be surgically removed but I hadn't given up yet so I tried to suck it back in for a try later on at home. Nope. It was stuck half way. So then I pondered on what to do. I didn't have any rubber gloves handy and I was NOT going to touch it with my hands because...I am a lady.

My new brother-in-law, Bill*** told us a story over Thanksgiving Dinner about when he was in the service and had the same problem -- except it was due to chocolate milk and he was in a barracks bathroom that had no stalls and he ended up yanking the stubborn "ass planet" out with his hand. Ewwwwww! Not me. If only I had some twine I could try and lasso it. Future Olympians could use it in the hammer throw. Yes, I had already considered getting up, spinning furiously and trying the rectal hammer throw with my butt cutlet but we were one! Locked in single combat.

As I sat, I pondered walking to my boss's office hunched over with my pants around my ankles and asking him to either assist me -- or let me go to Urgent Care and do you mind driving? He has a van. I even tried grabbing both sides of my ass cheeks and pulling them apart and bearing down. Apparently…Lady Luck was busy in the next stall.

This chunk of shit was holding me captive and I could not release the other chocolate hostages! I also had flashbacks of this being Elvis' last performance -- and his deathbed ended up being bathroom marble. We have linoleum at work. I was going to die on cheap linoleum! I figured it was a befitting end. Me and my over-sized butt gherkin in an eternal embrace. What would the mortician think? Would they have to lay me on my side in the casket? Would I now become the poster girl for Ex-Lax? "Don't let this happen to you – take Ex-Lax"…and a picture of me, dead on the bathroom floor…with a behemoth chuck of boo-boo protruding from my butt. Would they erect a Ronald McDonald House for Constipated Kids in my honor?

On the other hand, if I did manage to pass it, would it leave my asshole in tatters? Would I exit the bathroom with my over-stretched, shredded mucilaginous, intestines slung over one shoulder like a lariat trailing the tattered remnants of my colon with a sanguinary torn assmeat tip -- like a colorectal bridal train? Would a co-worker provide a helping hand and carry the train? Would I even have the balls to ask? When it came out would it give an audible pop like a champagne cork? Or would this be the fat man doing the cannonball into the pool? Maybe if I had some lubricant. Fuck…where am I going to find anal lubricant RIGHT NOW!?

Sigh. I just gave up and sat there. Waiting. Just like in the Wild, Wild, West of olden times. Me at one end of the lonely, tumbleweed-strewn, dusty, dirt road -- and my cowboy hat-wearing turd at the other. An old fashioned showdown with the theme from "The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly" playing in the background. An ass off.

Then…I felt it. My ass infant moved. I began to squirm and shift side-to-side. I was 'The Little Engine That Could' chugging away…I think I can…I think I can…I know I can…I know I can…I KNOW…then it was over. No noise, no blood, no tearing asunder. I wiped. Nothing.
I was alone…(to be continued)

***The name has been changed to protect me from future litigation.