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.