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