Posts Tagged ‘poop’

I finally broke down and got an iPhone a few months ago. Well, my boss offered me one. I only ever use it for taking pictures at work because my boss uses it too and I know at some point I’ll forget to delete a picture of my poop if I used it like it was my own.


(The contraption doesn’t even have Minesweeper on it so how good can it be?)

On the iPhone I get a few random phone calls. I also get a few text messages from mysterious people. I haven’t deleted any of them because if I ever lose the phone I want people to think I am mysterious and a total dick for never responding to text messages. Here are a few in the phone:

Person 1:

March 14: Hope you are doing well Basic enough

April 30: When people are innocent they don’t pack up and run I was getting excited when I saw this and had hoped there’d be some big drama to follow. There wasn’t…

May 3: And Judi Russo is not looking for any ones $$$$) (had that already when I was married—I am wishing people I trusted never hurt my innocent kids who loved them- Very powerful stuff yet I have a feeling this text message was from someone named Judi Russo talking about herself in third person like Rickey Henderson

July 5: We really pray for that family As if someone was going to call her a liar

Person 2:

June 24: Sup bro Simple enough

June 24: It’s Babby Since I didn’t respond Babby probably feels awful, as if his friend is ignoring him because it is Babby. Poor Babby! It may have always been a typo and I got a text from a baby

Person 3:

May 17: Valeri kumusta? Ano balita? I could have actually answered this one no matter what language that is since “no” is very universal

Finally there was this long chain from a group of people:

April 14: Ok one of you guys should call Sam or Mike and tell him that we trust him just as long he do right thing 4900 full truck everything that we talked about. Even if we add for the extra stuff that was not covered by all American I think we will not go over 7500 k. What do you guys think? I think you just left Sam or Mike out of this text message and included me

April 14: Yes please call him baby stuck in a meeting now Pet names in a mass text messages–this guy will not hear the end of it

April 14: Send me his cell # I get the feeling it’s a prison cell…

April 14: Buy maybe Val should call? Because Val loves dating convicted rapists

April 14: (cell phone number deleted to protect the stupid) his cell Val you want to tell him that we will trust him? Ok good luck then Later if we there is still room we can add the other stuff during loading day even if we pay extra. Call him just smooth him out tell him we read his blog that’s why we got scared. He doesn’t know we are going with All America I just said we paid for boxes. See what he say, if he accepted then we go with him I hope this person they are trying to get in touch with is an English tutor

April 14: Val did u call? I think I’m supposed to be Val

April 14: Did u call Sam? No I have not and I am ruining Val’s reputation as a slut who does what she’s told

April 14: No bz wd meeting I ask val can u ff up wd her The inventing of shorthand just shot herself in the eyes

April 14: Call me the iPod is at home God forbid you leave home without “The Best of Abba”

April 14: Coming home I really hope this is slang for “dying”

Last night the old family dog and frequent contributor to this blog McGwire passed away. In many ways his last days were like my mom’s, constant health problems and having no permanent home for more than too long. He lived 14 years, unless my math is incorrect, not that it makes a difference at all. He was an old dog who still often times had the wonderment of a puppy.

Fortunately we knew McGwire was sick and I got to see him last week before passing. I stole some gourmet dog treats from work in hopes these might brighten his day. I suppose they temporarily did.

The story of McGwire is not a simple one. We first got him back in 1999, a few months after the home run chase between Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa. Since I have a white family, we rooted for Mark McGwire to succeed. We were thinking about getting a black cat and naming it Sosa, but chose not to and thank goodness we didn’t because Sammy Sosa is white now.


I remember the first time I held McGwire. He had shit on his feet. The shit on his feet go onto my shirt, smearing Tino Martinez’s face. The woman at the animal shelter said this was his way of saying he liked me. I knew immediately we would be mortal enemies.

The summer was spent raising McGwire, teaching him how to behave better and potty train. He had our first dog Baylee to learn from, but being the youngest he was always the spoiled one. McGwire immediately took the biggest liking to my mom. Whenever I questioned it my mom would say “it’s because I’m the mom” as if this justified him ignoring everyone else and being obedient to her.

As time went on McGwire grew closer to my mom than anyone else. He still loved us and we loved him, but it was clear he was her dog. He never quite learned how to play well outside as he was a dog who went by his own rules. Fetch for him was a one step process, running to the ball and then not bringing it back.


After our parents sold our house he stayed with my mom. In that 2-3 year period I saw him a lot less. When I did see him it was almost like he didn’t even know me. He would bark like we had never met before and I was a threat or stare out me with no emotions. I would only see him a few times when he lived exclusively with my mom until she died.

When my mom died McGwire came to live with me. This was not the most convenient situation. McGwire would be alone for 10 hours every day on days I went to work. Amazingly he only ever pooped once in the house over those 20 months he lived with me and never once peed inside. Coming from a sick dog left alone who loved people, I appreciated his strong bladder and bowel.

The longer McGwire lived with me the more attached I became. He had without me wanting it to happen become my dog. I was in no position to take care of a dog nor could I take on the financial responsibilities fully. Still, there were no other options available. If I didn’t take him then he would end up in a shelter or worse, with someone I didn’t like.

At the end of last year I decided to move and McGwire would not come with me, while ironically I was actually in a better position to take care of him as I was jobless. Thankfully a friend of my sister’s was able to take him in and give him more love than I ever could have. He would have a yard, cats to keep him company all day, and more than a small apartment to roam around in. McGwire had won a retirement plan.

mcgwire dog

Not everything McGwire gave the world was perfect. His poop was gross and his butt looked like an elephant’s face/my elementary school librarian. Having him in my apartment gave me bad allergy attacks at times and his selfish need to eat for survival cost me much of my social life for the good part of two years as I always had to make sure he got what he needed. Still, I tried not to complain. Taking care of him the best I could meant sacrificing other moments and opportunities in life. I think I did this because it was the simplest way I knew how to honor my mom.

Despite his brief shortcomings, McGwire was a loving dog. Behind kicking me off the couch every night at midnight, getting into my trash every so often only to find nothing interesting, and making most meals I ate intrusive to my knees, he was a great dog. He was a ladies man, choosing girls over me anytime. M.C. Gwire had a temperament that was near perfect and a breath far from it. He might be gone, but his presence will always be felt. McGwire is the reason why I wanted a job working with dogs in the first place. He gets a lot of the credit for every hug I give a dog at work. He gets a lot of the credit for every baby-talk voice I do that makes a dog’s ears go back and tail wag. Best of all, McGwire is the reason why I never learned to pick up food if I drop it.

birthday dogs

Here’s to you McGwire. I cannot cry over your death because I know if I did you would just come sit next to me and kiss my face anyway like you always did before. Instead I’ll eat a lot of candy today (that’s my excuse for eating a lot of candy) because you always loved food. I hope wherever you have gone has a cool bathroom floor for you to lay on and nobody ever turns away when you breathe in their face. Thanks for the love you gave everyone.

The hardest part of death is always that the world never stops. People can give you sympathy. They can let you relax on responsibilities. The world just keeps going though no matter what our mood is. Before I even knew he was gone I had a dream with him in it. I have always hoped that dreams are us entering another world, perhaps even an afterlife. If this was somehow the case, he seemed to be happier, younger, and healthier than ever.

If you like reading about pooping then you are in the correct place. If bowel movements frighten you then you’re a wimp and should go away for a little while. I hate taking a poo in public. By public I don’t mean next to a playground slide while everyone is staring at me. I think I could handle that more. At least everybody knows my stance on life, I’m insane. When I say public I mean somewhere a vampire would be allowed to take a poo like a normal person. Did you know vampires are allowed to enter libraries, hospitals, and other public buildings? They don’t need to be invited in like they do a home. I remember this from an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Another thing I learned from Buffy, the existence of lesbians!

(Stop hugging and scissor each other already!)

Even further than taking a poo in public, I always had a fear about taking one anywhere outside my home. Each year my dad would take my sister and me to the Poconos in upstate Pennsylvania because he used to murder honeymooners in heart-shaped bath tubs in the mid-90s. This saved him an extra trip. I went an entire week without going poop once. This might seem insane, but the one time I did go the year earlier I clogged the toilet. The place we stayed was owned by my dad’s only friend. He was a very large man with a Brooklyn accent. I would have surely had my face shoved into the toilet once it was discovered my DNA was attached to the terd doing the clogging.

Poop is a word I say way too frequently. My most common daily phrases I have come to realize are “Come on!” and “Jesus Christ!” Between driving and having to walk a dog who tries to eat every pine cone he smells, I have good reason to say these as frequently as I do. I’m not a poop fan. In the last year I have calculated I have picked up approximately 678 clumps of poop. That’s twice a day, every day, minus once a week where I make my sisters do it. If I lived in a country like Germany where the stuff is like gold, I would have a castle by now.

(My German castle bought entirely from dog poo)

The entire time I was in school I only took a poop once while on the clock. I was in first period study hall when my tummy began to grumble. I began to sweat. Somehow I survived the entire period without going. Then second period came. This was my keyboarding class. Luckily the fast typing managed to distract any noises my stomach was making, but still it helped none of the pain. I asked the teacher for a hall pass and made my way toward a bathroom. My high school was so lame they only kept one bathroom open at a time and it changed every hour. This was so kids could not go in there and smoke. This was a major problem. I practically cursed out a fat history teacher asking me where the nearest bathroom was. He pointed. A gay kid was in the bathroom cleaning chocolate off his shirt. I pretended to pee because I didn’t want him going around to the Glee Club saying I’m someone who shits. I walked out then walked back in. Just so he didn’t think I was insane I declared out loud “Wow now I have to shit.” He nodded and I scared him away from men’s assholes for life. You’re welcome Republicans.

(That classmate grew up to become Jonathan Taylor Thomas, the straightest, least questioned to be a homosexual child actor from the 1990s)

I managed to go a long time at my day job without going. I say day job like I have a night job. Like posing as a police officer and asking to search people’s wallets qualifies as a real job. When I got older I cared less about where I let the chips fall. I was mostly ready to let it happen at work. Only once when it was the middle of the day and I knew the bathroom would be crowded and someone was bound to recognize my shoes then report to the highest ranking supervisor they could that I was someone who shits which most assuredly would get me fired did I venture someplace else to cleanse my body of breakfast. I went to the fancy hotel across the street I worked at for a month and was never paid anything I did and left the Mona Lisa of poops in a toilet sitting there for whoever came in next. I call it the Mona Lisa because it was very androgynous.

(I never realized what a giant forehead she had. If you squint and change the hair a bit this could be Ted Danson)

As I grow older my bowels are something I need to be more concerned about. I went to the last baseball game at Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia. My dad made a short scrapbook from the day yet the only thing I can remember is going home and painfully squeezing one out. From that day I swore I would never go more than a day without at least trying to go. Some men swear to take care of their families. Others promise to serve their countries. Me, I do my best to shit once a day.

I’m a very nervous person. You’d never know it if you saw me. I’m actually a descendant of the guy from the film West Side Story known as Ice. You know, the guy that sings that song that goes “Let’s play cool” as in a reference of his nickname Ice which is cool. Cool as ice. See? Now you understand Vanilla Ice. He’s a cool white guy. Rap suddenly makes 1% sense.

(My great-uncle Rodney T. Winterbottom VII, the man who got me into musical theater)

When I get nervous, I think up worst case scenarios. They never come true. Not even close, ever. It’s silly really. I avoid doing things for fear that the worst possible thing might happen. Today’s post is more for therapeutic purposes. For me to work out the worst case scenarios in certain situations that I might not feel at ease with. Maybe it’ll help your problems too. And if it doesn’t, I don’t care.

Nervous Moment #1: Asking someone out

I still get nervous asking someone out. I think a lot of us do. We think that we’ll be rejected. We came into this world rejects. Our moms wanted so little to do with us that they were willing to cause great pain to themselves to get rid of us out of their bodies. Now we’re left thinking everyone is out to hurt us.

I remember the first time I asked a girl for her phone number. It was scary. I had seen a friend of mine do it once before. His confidence amazed me. Especially because he was such a stupid guy. But maybe his stupidity helped him. He wasn’t able to think up a worst case scenario of facing rejection. He also likes the band Nickelback. I mean, really likes them. See the kinds of people I’m dealing with? Once you admit you like Nickelback you can admit you’re a kid toucher and people suddenly think a little bit better of you.

(Raise your hand if you have bad taste in music)

The worst case scenario that can happen being rejected by someone whom you are asking out is that they say no. That’s actually not true. I think having a girl say to me “Sorry, I already have a boyfriend” is much worse. At least saying no is definite. It means that things will never change. It’s permanent. It’s death to my heart. Saying that she already has a boyfriend is like her saying if I was to kill her boyfriend, like say he falls off a bridge suspiciously, I might have a shot. But then I’d have to murder someone to get with her. That makes me more nervous. I think in my head that if I ask a girl out and she says no that I can’t go anywhere else in that town ever again. It’s so ridiculous that I believe I should be committed for thinking this way. It’s her loss, right? That’s what people who aren’t good enough tell themselves. I saw a guy on the street one time, well-dressed and well-groomed go right up to a woman and say “What are you doing Friday night?” She looked at him strange and said she was busy. He moved on. That’s the answer to all of our problems. Move on.

Nervous Moment #2: Pooping in a public restroom

I know, so amateur of me to write about. But it’s something that I am very touchy about. It’s a sensitive subject. I only do it when I really have to. Or if I think of a really good prank to pull.

Why am I nervous about it? Everybody poops! Well, you see, in my head I have this scenario. I go into the bathroom and do my business. The smell is terrible. Ungodly. It’s loud. It’s like a high school marching band but better. Someone enters and sees my feet. I exit and go out to wherever it is I am and they recognize my shoes. They look at me and think “That’s the guy who shits.” He’ll say it loudly and point. Possibly imitate the sounds of my colon. The rest of the citizens around him will join in. Pointing and laughing. Sticking their tongues out to make fun. I’ll never be able to show my face in public ever again just because I had to get something high fiber for lunch.

That would never happen. Nobody cares enough to make fun of me. I only think that might happen because that’s exactly what I think in my head when I see someone else shit. I’m a very observant person. I might not look at a woman’s shoes most of the time, but I notice a man’s shoes when they’re poking out from underneath a stall. Don’t wear gold boots. They’re a death sentence for shitters. I can spot them for far away. The real worst case scenario with public shitting is that you might clog a toilet and have to ask for assistance. Or you find a human head in the toilet. Much more likely than having a bully make fart noises in the mall food court at you.

(“McFly took a big shit. Let’s get him Ryan from The OC.”)

Nervous Moment #3: Sharing

Sharing can be a difficult thing for males. We’re told that we’re not allowed to cry. We’re not allowed to show weakness. We’re not allowed to wear a dress. I blame the media, mostly. They’re easy to blame. The media is faceless and nameless. There are also a lot of Jewish people working in the media and they’ve been blamed for so much already that it rolls right off their backs.

I try to share as many of my thoughts as I can. Certain ones can only be shared with certain people. Certain thoughts need to be bottled up and tossed into the ocean. There are much stranger things floating around in my head than I am ever willing to share out loud. I get nervous with sharing because like my two previous nervous moments, they involve rejection and being made fun of. If I have an idea that isn’t any good then someone will say “That sucks!” then someone else will yell out “Stupid!” These things actually do happen. Nobody likes a bad idea. Especially when it invades their creativity.

(Not the best idea that people have ever had)

The problem with sharing something personal is that it can totally creep a person out. We have no real line to draw with what is okay to share and what isn’t. We’re told to not bottle anything up which is absolute horse-hockey (grandmother for fucking bullshit). There are certain things you should never share. Worst case scenario for that? You get thrown in prison, you lose all your friends, no one respects you, it’s endless. So sharing still makes me nervous because those worst case scenarios are real. Bottle it up kiddos. Nobody needs to know everything about you.

Overall when speaking of worst case scenarios it comes down to this. The worst case scenario for most of us is death. You say something stupid then you die. That’s the worst thing that can possibly happen for most of us. Not for me. I think the worst case scenario is saying something stupid and not dying. Having to live with everyone knowing I uttered out stupid rhetoric. Embarrassment hurts much more than death. At least with death I won’t care anymore. Do dead bodies blush?

I know it’s been done to death. I am the kind of guy who is willing to beat a dead horse though. Horses do die right? I’ve never seen a dead horse. I’ve seen a lot of dead animals, but never a horse. One time I went to a zoo and noticed behind the zoo a massive graveyard for all of the animals. That was sweet yet really upsetting. At the very least they pretend not to throw the animals in the garbage or sell them at the kiosks as a new flavor of ice cream.

There’s a certain etiquette that one must undergo while using the restroom. Even if a restroom isn’t what you call it, you need to abide by these rules. There are so many names for them that I want to first address that. None of the names are all that accurate either. Restroom doesn’t fit because you don’t really rest much unless you take a long shit. I’ve never fallen asleep while taking a number two. That seems difficult. As titled, some people call it the washroom. I never call it that. That’s why I titled it this. Of course everybody should wash in the room when they are done. Especially employees. They’ve got paper signs to remind them. I still don’t think it’s an accurate enough of a name. It completely overlooks the fact that before washing everything is very messy and sticky. Bathroom is what I tend to call it even when there is no bath present. You could always splash a little water on your face then look in the mirror to psyche yourself up for the date, but that’s not really a bath. For it to be a bath you need to be able to lie in it and possibly slit your wrists if you had a bad day. A sink doesn’t qualify. I remember in The Diary of Anne Frank she called it the W.C. I forget what that stands for (Wanking Chamber?) but with her luck I would never take advice from her on anything. I also heard someone call it the powder room before. I don’t know where she came up with that. Not since Victorian England was powdering your face the most important thing that went on. Perhaps she was a time traveler? The most simplest thing I’ve heard the room called is simply as the toilet. People say they need to use the toilet. Maybe this is the best thing to say. Not toilet always, but say exactly what it is you need to do. I need to pee. I need to poop. I need to pee and poop because if I do one I can’t do the other please do not make fun it is a serious medical condition.

For the sake of this blog here, I will try to call the room as many things as I possibly can so that all bases are covered. You’re welcome.

I go to the bathroom quite a bit. I drink tons of water. A high school boy once compared me to a lizard. They drink lots of water? I average at least one session an hour. Rarely do I not have to wake up once in the middle of the night to go. You might say I need to get my prostate checked out but like I said, I drink a lot of water. Probably close to two gallons a day. I’ve done this for about 5 years now. I remember old advertisements saying that drinking water will make you happy. It doesn’t. I’m very miserable. Then the advertisements come back and say that water will help your skin. Right now I’m using cream from my sister to help eczema on the left side of my neck and on each of my arms. What has drinking lots of water given me that’s positive? Lots of time spent in the bathroom, that’s what.

First off to understand this, you will need to know some science. Humans are made up of two different genders, males and chicks. Both of these genders must remove waste from their bodies through their front genitals, which differ from each other, and from their butts. The waste will vary in sizes, but you already know that. You’re human. Dogs cannot read. And if they could, they surely wouldn’t be reading this. They use the W.C. outside. They don’t need to know about washroom etiquette.

I can only really speak from my experiences from the men’s room and not the ladies. I have in fact spent some time in the lady’s room though when I was younger. I remember being at the mall with my mom and two sisters. It was probably 1991, a dangerous time in the world. Nevermind had just come out, Family Matters was a big hit on television, and Ted Danson was still a sex symbol. There was no way my mom was letting me use the boy’s room alone. So I went into the lady’s room. There were huge lines everywhere. Nobody talked. They just stood patiently waiting to take their turn. It was weird and I haven’t been back in one since. Now I hear they have couches in girl’s bathrooms. No fair! I want somewhere in my bathroom where I can lose a remote control in.

For the first few years of my life I could never use a urinal. I know a few adults that still seem to have this problem. It always makes me laugh now how they have such a shy bladder that they can’t pee next to me while I giggle to intimidate them. I don’t remember the first time I worked up the courage to actually use the urinal, but I remember I felt proud like I had accomplished something important. It might have been the time I was at an amusement park and a janitor said to me “Do you have to pee?” and I said “Yes” then he refused to let me into one of the stalls because he had already cleaned them. I understand he was doing his job, but this was a big strong black man. He probably had nothing to be shy about. I was a chubby 10-year-old boy. I didn’t know if what I was packing could make anyone jealous.

Women cannot understand urinals and how uncomfortable it is. It’s men lined up peeing on walls. This is normal now. Yeah, I scrunch my nose at the thought. It’s weird in such a homophobic society that it’s fine to yank out your dick in front of 30 other guys as long as water’s coming out of it. I know you’re not supposed to look and all. That’s like the number one rule. Still, you know it’s out there. It’s the elephant in the room. Or the elephant trunk in the room if you’re a lucky boy who ate his vegetables and has Haitian genetics.

The first rule about urinals is not to look. That’s simple. It’s a very mafia influenced idea, I think. Another rule that I think that goes without saying is don’t talk. We’re in a weird situation. I don’t want to small talk with you about anything at all. Unless we’re good friends then it’s fine. If I don’t know your middle name, shut the fuck up. We’re peeing. I don’t need to know what you thought about America Idol. A third rule that might not be so obvious to some is that when using the urinal, stand near it. I mentioned him once before and hope to mention him again, the kid with a foot for a hand that I went to elementary school with. My elementary school had bathrooms in the classrooms, until you got to 5th grade or if you were in the special education classrooms. Foothand was special ed. Really good at soccer too because he was allowed to punch it into the net. When he’d use the urinal, he’d completely drop his pants and stand against the back wall. He’d actually be able to pee a good 5 foot distance and hit his target. Damn. If that isn’t a talent that will make him some money at a circus. He has a foot for a hand and can pee far. In another world, I’d pay to see that. He reminded me of a fourth rule too. Don’t drop your pants. If your pants disable you from having a fly, go use a stall. I might think you have a shy bladder or some disease, but who cares? That’s better than everyone seeing your ass hanging out. Next time I see this, I’m dropping a penny down there.

One more rule. Don’t eat while at the urinal. A Spanish guy at my work stood up at the urinal next to me while eating a bag of chips. He dumped them into his mouth because only one hand was free. Chips are a delicious snack. As delicious as they are, I still think it’s possible to wait until after peeing to taste. Just a thought. Maybe this is some sort of Spanish tradition though. Like dancing with roses in your mouth. That has to confuse some children. Shit. Only one person will get this but maybe that’s why the kid in Season 4 of Breaking Bad “ate” the poisonous flower, the Lily of the Valley. If you knew the reference here you will know how brilliant I really am.

Further Reading Suggestion: Everybody Poops, Going Rogue and America by Heart by Sara Palin