Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Waging Poopy Tales, The Law Of The Anus, And Singing The Blue Box Blues

I have a friend named Eric who is married to a beautiful woman named Jerri, who has more than once made the observation that if Eric and I are left to our own devices, and we have a conversation that has gone on for more than one hour, then we are invariably talking about something directly or indirectly related to the anus.

The sad matter of the fact is-- she is right. I've observed this as a self-conscious conversationalist. I mean, while paying attention to what comes out of my mouth or what I am actually listening to, I have observed the very same phenomenon that Jerri described, and, to make matters worse, have been completely unable to stop it.

You would think that being aware of a conversations' eventual destination would allow one to "steer" all thoughts and words away from that hazard the way one avoids that nasty pothole on the way home from work. You know it is coming. You simply steer left or right of it, and avoid it completely.

Not so with the anus, apparently. The anus seems to be nestled at the bottom of all thought processes, very much like a floor drain, ready to take all liquidities, eventually, inevitably, and-- like some of Newton's laws-- predetermined by physics.

Conversations will start in the loft and eventually end up in the downstairs bathroom.

That's just the nature of nature calling.

That's just the way the Law Of The Anus affects us all.

And the funny thing is, this unbreakable, unbendable law has overlayed itself on to people's blogs, and the Anus Law-- though under a different time construct-- is appearing in predictable and calculatable fashion all over the place.

I mean, it is an uncanny phenomenon that is worth a look at.

I mean, just this week, three of my sidebar blog links had to go through the anus cycle, and start anew.

Here is an excerpt from each of them. You determine if I am insane, or I am spot on correct about the Law Of The Anus...

Flat Coke And Flies writes-- { http://lenae.blogspot.com/ }

After coming home from dinner at Red Lobster, and before I had to go to work, we relaxed and watched another episode of the Sopranos. About 10 min into the episode the phone rings and Mr. Buyer of the house says he wants to come over in about an hour (he had to prep the petri dishes) and start the mold test (it takes 48 hours to result). When we finished the Sopranos 39 minutes later, I started feelin' the Red Lobster shrimp swimming around in my belly. I decided I better use the ladies room before going to work. I take my laptop with me to check blogs (Mr. Wonderful thinks this is gross because I "funk up my keyboard".) I finished dropping off the kids at the pool, spray some Clean Cotton fragrance around the room, light a candle, and go tell the boyfriend, "Just to let you know...I had to get rid of some weapons of mass destruction so when Mr. Buyer gets here, just BEWARE of that area in the house." He thought that was the funniest thing he had heard all day. About 10 min later Mr. Buyer shows up...and guess where he wants to go first to lay his 1st petri dish??? I asked Mr. Wonderful if he thought there could be any fecal spores to ruin the mold test and us not be able to move???? So if we don't get to move, it'll be all Flat Coke's fault.

***

And then Stucco abrades the world with this gooey-doozy-- { http://discotent.blogspot.com/ }

I was working in a swanky restaurant in Denver as a waiter and bartender and this whopping great big fat guy came in one Sunday for the buffet. For those of you who never worked in food service, Sunday buffets are punishment for the staff. I was bartending, because I was the rookie on the bar staff, and realistically, who can screw up a Bloody Mary or Mimosa? So, much like "Mr. Creosote" in Monty Python's Life of Brian, this man eats an impressive amount of food and stops by the toilet (the hallway to which was near the end of the bar) and I forget all about him. This would have been in the early 90's and the New Orleans Saints started the season 8-0 and I was amazed. I must have been watching their game when he left. Before very long a patron came up to me and told me the men's room needed, uh, attention... Now, I know what unabashed pigs men can be and am steeled by the fact that my mother would talk about autopsies over dinner in my youth. I see myself as being mighty resistant to gross shit. None of this could have prepared me for what I was to behold- the shock and the majesty. In the handicapped stall (and who doesn't prefer the handicapped stall? All that space, and handles to grab a hold of in case of a struggle) there was the most amazingly disgusting dilemma. Mr. Creosote had shit a turd of a diameter similar to my ankle or calf. Here was a man clearly capable of effortless childbirth. The turd coiled like a soft serve ice cream and wound itself up above the waterline to a spire of such height that the top was shaped like a pagoda's roof from presumably pressing against his ass cheeks. The toilet paper used was scattered about the stall in a violent manner, and the turd was remarkably pristine. I stood, dumbstruck, imagining the sequence of events that must have been required to accomplish this spectacle, sometimes laughing and gagging. I then went to collect a crowd of spectators. I should have charged admission, but before long the restroom was standing room only. Male and female alike, testing their own limits and constitutions, forever scarring their view of humanity and not a one wanting to deal with any resolution short of closing the place down and opening up somewhere else. The manager on duty (doodie?) in the end decided to pay the dishwasher $50 to go in the stall and fillet the poogoda with a steak knife and fork, and carry each slab on a saucer to the other toilet and flush it incrementally. Such was the manner in which this accomplishment had been undone. I don't know if the knife, fork, and saucer were thrown out or washed, but I never ate there again. Also noteworthy is how far people will go to earn an extra $50 bucks...

***

And then this LIST shows up on Irrelephant, besmirched with the Law's Of Anus

(his template won't allow me to cut and steal anything, damn it! but go and contribute to his cause...)
http://irrelephant.blogspot.com/2006/10/poop.html

***

Not to be outdone, I have a poopy tale to elaborate on, getting my Anus thingy out of the way in the hope that I won't have to get back to it anytime soon hereafter...

I've written about my friend G on several occasions. I've told you that he has stout legs, a solid backside, and he is slightly bowlegged. These have all stood him in good stead with the bucking broncos and bulls that he once rode, but the configuration has also caused him to be the brunt of some pretty shitty jokes. I mean, the way G is built, you would think he could really pinch one off...

When he and I first traveled together way back in the early eighties in New Zealand, we met a guy named Allen who was a repo-man with a boat he had repossessed but not quite gotten around to telling the bank about. Allen wanted to get some use out of his find before he returned it, so he invited us out to a pristine and completely human-being-free lake except for he and I and G and a friend of Allen's named Mark.

To get to the brunt of this tale in a hurry, G and I had been backpacking the week before we met up with Allen and had been living off of Granola. Now, if you've ever spent a week eating nothing but granola, you may know what I am talking about.

We call them backpacking craps.

What they are, are thick, long, well put together fecal formations that can often astound the uninitiated. One look at one of these beauties by the untrained eye, and you have an amazed and astonished untrained eye on your hands. I mean, backpacking craps can pack a visual wallop, especially to those who grew up on canned chile con carne and coffee. They average about a foot long. They are as big as your anus is wide. They stay together like bread dough when dropped on a log, and they attract a lot of flies.

When it comes to fecal formations, they are second in the world in magnitude and magnificence, dwarfed only by the rare and seldom seen "buffet pagodapoop"...

But in the annuls of anus lore, you can't go a week without hearing about one of these legendary monstrosities clogging up the pipes of the most fecund and enzymatic individuals' households toilet trap, and how he took the plunge...

So what actually happened is this. We all went fly fishing for a time up a creek. We left the boat in the water (too heavy to bring with us) and we followed a small animal trail up the creek to a pool where we all threw flies in the water with expensive apparati and then jerked them back out. It seemed an odd pastime, I admit, but I was game until the desire to move overcame me like a semi in a tunnel, and I excused myself politely and headed back to the boat. On the way back, I happened to see a perfect leaning log-- a log where you could poo without putting stress on the kneecaps-- and I stepped off the trail a few feet and utilized the perfect height and mossy softness for my business.

13 incredible inches. Maybe as big around as a swollen porno cucumber.

Indefatigably indecorous.

Like a monument to the act of shitting.

The entire soundtrack to 2001/A Space Odyssey blasting through the shaking, quaking hills...

And then I left it there.

I went back out to the boat, got something to drink, hung out with my rod in my hand and threw flies in the lake and jerked them back out. I did this with a calm and easy demeanor. I was happy. I was pacified. I had done my enormous doody and this had pleased me.

There was a strange sound and a rustling of bushes to my right. I looked. I saw. I was confused by what I saw. My friend G was on his hands and knees. He was crawling out of the forest in a state one can only call "laughing his ass off." He was crying and in such pain and misery that he could no longer walk. The tears poured from his face. The hands clutched at sides that cramped and convulsed. The knees grew red from the torment of being asked to be feet. G finally collapsed on the beach and went into what appeared to be a cross between an epileptic fit and a wrestling bridge exercise.

And following him and seeming to be the cause of all of this convoluted torment, were Allan and Mark-- like verbal whipping masters working on a new whipping boy.

"You should have seen the size of the bloody thing! That was NOT HUMAN!"

"You didn't just shit a log, you shit a Sequoia Tree!"

"I have never, in my forty years, seen something with those proportions!"

"My God man, did rip yourself apart?"

"What kind of an ass makes something like that?"

"Where the hell were you storing it? In a trailer?"

"It looked like a stack of logs in my fireplace."

"There is no way that thing was human. No way!"

And poor G, unable to explain the whole story because his sides were splitting, being rent by verbal comments that were relentless and Johnny on the spot.

"If I shat one of those, I'd have it bronzed and placed on my mantlepiece."

"I'd have it bronzed and placed in a gallery."

"We'd call it "The Human St. Bernard Goes Poo.."

"No. That's no good. How about "Genesis"...

"I like that. Yeah. The Creation..."

Until G had simply rolled on his back and given up all hope.

WHAT HAD HAPPENED WAS THIS. I had done my business on the leaner log. I had probably shat my all time best shit. It was epic. It had its own theme music. It was a significant contribution to the world, and I had left it where I thought nobody would notice it.

Trouble was, G had decided that my leaner log was perfect for him too. He had seen my monster and duly noted it, dropped his trousers and dropped TWO MORE of the most incredible backpacking craps one would ever proudly unveil, RIGHT ON TOP of my astounding creation, and Allen and Mark had assumed that G had made it all.

Completely astounded, they had had no choice but to comment on the poundage sausaged before them, and G had been unable to tell them of my previous visitation. To this day, I am sure, there are stories being told across New Zealand about G and his incredible manufacturing plant, because, of course, I had denied everything...


Now aren't you glad I got THAT out of my system!

20 comments:

hammer said...

Wow. I cannot believe what I started. Crossing turds? That is almost as bad as sloppy seconds.

Great story. Granola does indeed
make for some good bombs.

Nikky said...

I don't know if I'm embarrassed or proud that I rarely (if ever) mention doodie in my blog.
Right now I'm just sitting here with a quizzical look on my face, shaking my head, because I know that if I were to do one of those "C'mere n read this" to my son, he would literally wet himself laughing.
Maybe I'll let him read it tomorrow. I'm such a good Mommy.

Anonymous said...

For the first time ever, I couldn't finish reading. I just scrolled to the comment section, keeping my eyes half closed and looking for the picture of you and your buddies that's on the previous post (so I'd know when to stop). I have a "delicate constitution" - I freely admit it.
I'm also a priss - I admit that, too.

And no, in case anyone is curious, I don't do that. Ever. But if I did, it wouldn't stink.

Shirley said...

You story made me rather envious. When one has a colon blockage that sort or elimination is something that can only be the subject of dreams. Ah, but just wait. After the surgery I'll once again leave things in the toilet that can be marveled over.

Stucco said...

As I sit here crying with laughter, I wonder what to think of myself- that I should find this all so damned funny. I could blame my progenitors, as my mother's favorite joke is: Why is shit tapered? So your ass won't slam shut.

Where you described G as the kind of guy who looked like he could really "pinch one off" I nearly choked (I was eating breakfast- hey I said I don't get grossed out) from trying to laugh and swallow. Although, I think I'm with Hammer on this one- I believe in coprolitic seperation. To thy own turd be true, or something.

And how weird was it that so many folks spontaneously decided to talk shit? I mean, I was inspired by Hammer, but Irrelephant was autonomous, and I think Flat Coke was too? Pants is now on some tear about how Irrelephant and I are clones or doppelgangers or such. In a manner of speaking, that means she's talking crap too.

Liz said...

I try not to mention poo in my blog, even though it is a major topic of conversation in my family. I blame it on the digestive troubles my mother, sister and I have. When the kids (my sister's and mine) were tiny, poop was a big conversation as well. These conversations give kids the poo-giggles. Somehow there is a special giggle reserved only for poo talk.

Very funny story...

Flat Coke and Flies said...

Thanks for making me famous! Working in the hospital I see all types of bodily matter than exists the body in some shape or form. I'm not grossed out easily. Thank God we are all finished talking about "poo" for awhile. (Unless the petri dishes come back with fecal mold) then I'll HAVE to write another post. hee hee

Scott from Oregon said...

Yhe funniest blogging line I have seen in a long time-- "I try not to mention poo in my blog..."

Good lord, it has come to this!

La Chou said...

Oh dear...lots of poo stories.
My last casual boyfriend (the actor) wanted to date me because (he told me this later) I had the craziest poo stories. Not about my poo. So poo stories are good for getting laid.

Anonymous said...

"Steve",

Freud is calling from the great beyond. He is on line 1, and very intrigued by this poo fascination.

You might want to take this one...

Kris, Seattle said...

I'm still stuck on the part about two men having a conversation that lasts more than an hour. You must mean 20 minutes of conversation and then 40 minutes of tossing insults back and forth about how bad your farts smell and claims of how big your penises are.

Stucco said...

Kris- right, I'm pretty sure that's what "conversation" means. Insults, gastrointestinal distress, penile bravado and embellishment, and sometimes sports. If I'm wrong on this, please don't tell me. If I had to have one of those "Jane Austen" chats I think I'd be a bad influence. "Mr. Darcy left an air biscuit in the carriage"

Kris, Seattle said...

LOL Stucco. My husband had to explain all this to me. He also something about NO conversation is to be going on in men's public restrooms. No chatting at the urinals. That is so not true about women's restrooms. Heck, if some women can't get their stall neighbor started in conversation, half the time I hear the cell phone dialing and an outsider is brought in for company. Now that is really weird.

Scott from Oregon said...

Kris, Stucco. Glad to see you two have met. I was going to introduce you, since Stucco's dream is to be moving to Seattle at Thansgiving, and Kris's domicile happens to be Seattle. I look forward to visiting both of you on my "Scottpalooza" sometime in January.

Scott from Oregon said...

Oh, and la chou. Really? Poo stories are good for a hay toss? Who knew?

Kris, Seattle said...

Stucco,
Moving here in November? What, are you from North Dakota or Maine? That's almost as weird as Scott deciding that January is a good month to travel north.

BTW, we don't have much stucco around here. Mostly cedar siding. ;)

Stucco said...

Hi Kris,

Umm.. You've been in Denver in the winter? At any rate, the new job starts Monday the 30th, and I need to find a house for rent that'll allow my dogs. Any ideas?

Kris, Seattle said...

Any ideas?

As close to the place where you work as possible. Commuting around here is a bitch.

just me said...

Hilarious shit, there, Scott.

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