Feeling Flushed

Back in the day (my very first week here at Mental Poo), I wrote my OWN bathroom law:

Thou shalt not hold a conversation in the men's room.

I neglected one very important rule, however, which I recalled during one of my very own recent experiences.

I hate having bathroom 'experiences.'

I'm going to start wearing Depends Undergarments so I don't actually have to go INTO the bathroom and can thus avoid such things.

Coworker: "Hey...what's that smell?"

Me: "My bad. Sorry. Someone sent me a funny Will Ferrell video on YouTube and I didn't want to get up."

Depends Undergarments ROCK.


Regarding my rule, here goes:

If you see a clogged toilet brimming with poo-stew, DON'T TRY TO FLUSH IT.

Jesus. H. Christ.

I had this lovely experience last week when I myself had to squash out a yule log.

My entry into the first bathroom stall was apparently shortly after an elephant had gone in there with a new, improved, colon cleansing formula.

Me (opening stall): "GOOD GOD!! WTF?! Who did this ... the Hulk?!?"


Poo: "SHUT THE DOOR!!"

Yes.

It spoke and had it's own intelligence.

Me: "Sorry."

The toilet was brimming with butt stew and obviously clogged so I simply suppressed my gag reflex and happily (not really) moved to the next stall.


As I'm sitting there making dookie, in walks a guy in a pair of loafers.

He casually strides into the clog-stall.

Loafers: "HOLY MOTHER OF CHRIST!!"

My heart sank because, with no stalls left, I know in my heart what's going to happen next. However, because of the "no talk" rule in the men's room ... I'm not allowed to try to stop him.

Loafers TRIES TO FLUSH IT.

Oh. No.

What happened next, I do not wish on my worst enemy.

Except maybe Rachael Ray.

I hope this happens to her A LOT.


I hear the inevitable flush.

*FLOOOOOSH*

Of course, the giant, animated turd of the Apocalypse refuses to flush...

...and immediately starts overflowing INTO MY STALL.

Me: "AAARRRRGGGHHH!!!"

For the next 15 seconds, I frantically try to expel my own remaining dookie as fast as possible AND wipe said dookie before the overflowing poo water and little brown canoes reach my shoes.


******************
Side story:

I used to work for a civil engineering firm a while back.

One of the engineers there overflowed the toilet, and came running frantically into the boss' office.

Scott: "QUICK!! QUICK!! I NEED A PLUNGER!! THE TOILET'S OVERFLOWING!!!"

There is a pause as my boss slowly looks up at him.

He clasps his hands together firmly on his desk, leans forward, and ever so calmly looks at Scott and replies:

Boss: "Are there little brown canoes?"

Awesome.
*******************

Back to me...squishing and wiping as fast as my little anus and tiny hands could go.

It was like Indiana Jones and Raiders of the Lost Ark ...

... except instead of being chased by a giant rolling boulder, it was a flood of poops.

I'd like to see Indy get out of this one.


The moral of the story:

People:

Abide by the rules.

Live by the Rules.

And if you see my feet in the stall next to the clogged one, DON'T FLUSH THE FUCKING THING.

The odds of seeing me though are slim to none these days.

Depends Undergarments.

The bathroom of the future, baby.

Bathroom of the future.

The Stinky Fun Factory

Today, I give you a short glimpse into what it's like to be my friend.

..and then...

Why you really really really might not want that privilege.

Here is a snippet of some Instant Messaging that happened out of the blue with my friend, John, the other day.

Enjoy.

***********************

midgetmanofsteel: Have you ever pooped rectangles? Because I just pooped a rectangle...like a PlayDoh Fun Factory and squishing it out the little rectangle hole. How does that happen?

John: dude

***********************

That's how I said 'hi' to John.

Popping open his Yahoo Messenger window, telling him that I just shit a rectangle.

Seriously...I shit a rectangle.

I'm not sure how this was physically possible.

And I needed answers.


I believe this conversation took place around 9:00 a.m.

Good morning, Johnny!

Had coffee yet? You have?

Then let's talk about my rectangular shit!

But John, who is self-proclaimed 'King of all things shit-related,' didn't disappoint me:

***********************

John: I might have to think about that

John: I'm going into a meeting, I will ponder it during the meeting

***********************

He will ponder it.

This begs the question:

What's a friend?

Is a friend someone who stands by your side, and lends understanding and compassion when you need them most?

No.

No...a friend is someone who will forget about his career and, instead, contemplate the inner workings of the human body including, but not limited to, your bowels, colon and sphincter muscles to answer the question of how you were able to shit out a geometric shape that morning.

THAT, my friends, is a true amigo.

This is also probably why I have very few of them.

I should probably think about revising that definition.

Whatever.


(yep...one that's one of mine)

**** the IM picks up again later that day ****

John: so, is it like a piece of charcoal?

midgetmanofsteel: charcoal? Jesus, man. How big do you think my asshole is?

John: no I meant charcoal square

John: like rounded edges. Like what you put inside a grill.

midgetmanofsteel: no - more like a Twix bar, but way longer.

John: oh

***********************

Oh.

I get...'Oh.'


That's the last I've heard from John on the subject.

It's been months.

I'm guessing he's still pondering it.

He's a good friend.

I think.

The Ball Shedder

Dear Dickwad,

No, I do not know your name.

Nor do I know who you are.

But I know WHAT you are.

You're an asshat.

Why do I know this?

Because every time I go into the men's room to launch my little brown canoes, I can tell when you've been there.

How?

Three words:

Ball. Hair. EVERYWHERE.

Mother of Christ.

It's like four hundred little Magic Pube Fairies came in overnight and sprinkled short curlies all over the toilet and toilet seat.

*** SIDEBAR ***

Magic Pube Fairies: Fact or Fiction?

Discuss.

*** END SIDEBAR ***


Dude.

I have to poo.

I do NOT have the time to sit there and try to blow them off the seat...

...or wipe at them with a little fragment of toilet paper...

...hoping...NO, NO...PRAYING TO GOD that they're not of the 'wet' variety.

As this will require physically wiping them off.

And, no...

...I'm NOT going to just leave them there and sit down.

If I wanted to know what it felt like to sit on your pubes, I'd call your mother.


Do you not know this is happening?

Based on the sheer amount of curlies that are sitting here, I would imagine that your penis - right now - looks like Charlie Brown's Christmas Tree...

...all mange-looking and shit.

(For my Jewish readers, replace 'Charlie Brown's Christmas Tree' with 'Dreidel' or 'Minotorah' and you should be all set with the above analogy. You're welcome.)


I have found this hard to believe, but you're actually WORSE than that other guy.

You know the other guy.

The guy who USES HIS ELECTRIC RAZOR WHILE STANDING OVER THE TOILET without putting the seat up.

Awesome.

Looky what we got here!

Little tiny whiskers all over the goddamn seat.

Asshole.

Dude, if I wanted to know what it was like to sit on your face, I'd call pube-guy's mother.

She's a dirty, dirty mommy.

(mom...call me)

So, instead of a toilet seat covered in little whiskers (not the cat food)...

...I get a toilet that looks like Epstein from 'Welcome Back Kotter' is resting his head on it.


In closing, you prick, check for your nut hair before exiting the shitter.

Or shave your balls.

Either works for me, but with the latter, I have less work to do.

Until I start pooping.

Then I'm nothin' but business, baby.

Thanks in advance.

Signed,

Epstein's Mother

**********************
Also...

DON'T FORGET TO ENTER MY HARD ROCK CAFE giveaway contest that features pictures of Kathy Griffin in a bikini!

Two winners will be picked Friday and all you have to do is comment.

You're welcome.

Cracker Barrel and the Explosive Diarrhea

My son is awesome.

He's also wicked handsome but that's primarily because he looks like me.

I hope he inherits my modesty.

Regardless..

A while ago, the soon-to-be-ex-wife and I took the kids to "Cracker Barrel" for breakfast.

Cracker Barrel ad:

"Come in for breakfast. No teeth? No problem. Most of our staff doesn't have them, either."

Seriously - half the people in there look like they bang their sisters.

For the record, I don't have a sister.

Totally. Sucks.


Before we left, we told the kids to hit the bathrooms. I went into the men's room with my son.

Son: "I have to go poop."

Awesome.

Because I love hanging out in men's rooms.

No - seriously.

It's awesome.


Regardless, my son popped into a stall while I stood at the urinal myself.

BE STILL, ANACONDA!!

I've digressed.

Suddenly, the bathroom door burst open and a guy - in an obvious situation of full-on bowel distress - goes shooting into the stall next to my son.

No sooner is the guy in the stall, sitting right next to my son separated only by a small metal wall...

...does the cacophony of fart fireworks and shit-expulsion sounds begin.

*BRRAAAAPPP! BRAAAP!! FWOOOPPP!!"

This guy had to shit badly.

*PPFFFFTTTTT!! PTHBTHBTHBTHBT!! BROOOOP!"


Then...

*cricket*

There was a short lull in the symphony...

It's at this time that my son pipes up...

...and says to the guy in the stall:

"Excuse you."

* cricket

Awesome.

Guys, ever try peeing at a urinal while you're laughing? It's difficult.

Probably not as difficult as it is to shit while you're laughing - which the guy in the stall was now trying to do.

My son. Is. Awesome.

Plus, he has good manners.

Poopy Pen

The Answer:
Seriously, I have no fucking clue.

The Question:
How does your wife live with you?

Another iteration of that question:
How does your wife let you live?

That question has been posed by no less than 36 of my readers at one time or another.

I made that number up.

It's probably higher...

...but once I get past the number of visible bodily parts I can count, I usually give up counting shit.

The abacus is the tool of the Devil.


Regardless...this is a pretty good question.

Case in point:

My wife has a favorite pen.

That's not slang for anything...it's an actual pen.

In our vast junk drawer of pencils, rulers, screwdrivers, markers and anal beads...

..she will always use this pen.

(reminder here to ask my daughter for those beads...she's currently using them as a bracelet)

(second reminder here to make sure she washes her hands really really well)


In my wife's defense, it's a nice pen.

It writes nice and smooth. It has excellent counter-weight and balance.

And, unlike the majority of pens in our junk drawer:

It actually has some ink in it.

Me: "Every fucking pen in this drawer doesn't write!!"

Wife: "The ones you find in there with no ink...are you throwing them out?"

Me: "No. Why?"

The next day:

Me: "Every fucking pen in this drawer doesn't write!!"

My wife has headaches a lot.


So my wife uses this pen almost exclusively.

When I'm not using it.

You see...

I poo.

I poo a lot.

I like to poo.

I have it listed on my resume under 'Hobbies and Interests.'

I don't get a lot of calls from Monster.com.

Hold on.

Me: "That's two double cheeseburgers. Would you like fries with that?"

Stupid job.

(click to enlarge)


I usually take about 20 minutes for a classic good-to-go crap.

This means that I have a lot of time to kill on the john when I'm not trying to massage my legs to get the feeling back in them.

So I do puzzles.

Sudoku.

Cryptoquotes.

Drawing smiley faces on my penis.

All these things require the use of a pen.

Me: "Well don't we look angry today, Mr. Wiggly. Maybe this beating will get you back in line! Take that...and..that! And how you like them apples, huh?! HUH?!?"

Perhaps I've said too much.


So, with newspaper in hand the other morning, I reached in the drawer and grabbed my wife's favorite pen.

Wife: "What are you doing?"

Me: "Um. Hello? It's 6:30 in the morning."

Sometimes my wife doesn't think.

The caca train comes promptly at 6:30 every morning and waits for no man.

Wife: "No. I meant what are you doing with my pen?"

Oh.

Me: "Drawing faces on my pe...I'm doing the Sudoku puzzle."

Phew.

Bullet. Dodged.

Wife: "DON'T. RUIN IT."

Ruin it?

How am I going to ruin a pen?

Jesus woman...give me some fucking credit.

(One minute later)

* PLOOP *

Yep.

Pen slips out of my hand and falls right in the fucking toilet.

********

Rodney: Providing fodder for God's sick sense of humor since 1968.

********


I react:

Me: "OH. OH NO."

Wife (yelling from the kitchen): "What did you do to my pen?!"

How does she know what just happened?

Me: "Um. Your pen just fell in the toilet."

The last time fate laughed at me like this is when I was a kid the day after Halloween and wanted to go outside with my mask on.

For some reason, my mother didn't want me going outside with a mask on that had the ability to completely obscure 90% of my peripheral vision.

I rebelled at an early age.

I started to go out anyway.

My mother said:

"If you go out with that on, God will punish you."

Nicely played, mom.

So, you're saying that God will punish me for wearing a fucking mask outside? What the fuck?

Seriously, am I his biggest fucking problem today?

Last time I checked, 'Dance Fever' was on the cusp of cancellation. Can't he deal with that shit?

Adrian Zmed, you are no Deney Terrio.


I was confident that God had better shit to do.

So I bolted out the door.

Mask on,I immediately tripped and fell down the concrete steps of my house which I couldn't fucking see because of this stupid fucking mask and ripped the shit out of my hands, arms and knees.

God: 1
Rod: 0

(As I go on through life, this score starts simply becoming a blowout and I just stop fucking trying to keep track)

Inside, I hear my mom laughing.

Right now, though, my wife is not laughing.

She warned me, and now I must pay the price.

So no more favorite pen for my bathroom activities.

Damn.

Anyone know how to get permanent marker off your penis?

Just checking.

Mini-Me and the Rainbow Poo

Further proof that my son is actually mine.

I mean, the fact that his penis is bigger than mine and he's only six really threw me for a loop...

...but I think we've got evidence now.

Note:

I was going to write 'hard evidence' there but backspaced because it seemed inappropriate while talking about my son's penis.

Tactfulness WIN!

I've digressed.

This Sunday, my son had 'Fruity Pebbles' cereal for breakfast.


He was in the bathroom brushing his teeth...

...when I walked in and started dumping his Fruity Pebble leftovers into the toilet.

As we stood there staring at the festive array now floating in the toilet (this time NOT of my own making), I looked at him and said:

Me: "Wouldn't it be awesome if you actually pooped like that?"

He looked at me, excited.

Son: "That would be SO cool."

Me: "Like a little rainbow."


Then he then looks at me, bends over and makes his hand move in a big arc so out of his butt so that it looks like he just pooped out a rainbow.

At the same time, he does this:

"Laaaaaa!"

Like angels singing.

He makes me so happy.

Me: "Maybe when you poop the rainbow, there would be a little Leprechaun at the end of it."

Son: "Awesome! And instead of coins he'd have a little piece of poop made of gold."


A little poop of gold.

Amazing.

We immediately both start dying laughing.

Then...from out in the kitchen...

..my wife:

Wife: "God. You two were made for each other."

Yes.

Yes we were.

How awesome is that?

Colonel Sanders, Wayward Follicles and My Poo

I’m not sure what to make of this.

The last time I said that, I was holding a boob.

Like riding a bicycle, my ass.

I’ve digressed.

I was sitting in the bathroom stall the other morning, dropping the Cosby kids off at the pool.

For the second time.

A “deuce squared,” if you will.

(trademark pending)


I was sitting there playing Sudoku on my cell phone when it happened.

On a side note, try playing Sudoku while in a bathroom stall and then saying out loud:

“Oh. So THAT’S where the number two goes!”

Good times.

Good times.


Regardless, I was sitting there with my phone out.

When IT floated down.

No, not Pennywise the clown.

A different...IT.

Yep.

It floated down…

… and deftly draped itself across my phone.

I watched it in it’s last few inches of travel.

Completely. Mesmerized.

* plink


And there…on my phone keypad…

Was a hair.

Yep.

A goddamn hair.

A long, gray hair.

*blink

* blink blink

What. The fuck?!?!?

A long, gray hair had somehow magically wafted down from the heavens and landed strategically across my cell phone keypad.

Awesome.

And I know that it's certainly not mine because the hair I actually DO have is shaped like the Florida peninsula and is about a ½ inch long.

Great.

I just realized that I also just described my penis.

I cry sometimes.


Let's recap:

There...on my phone...

Big, gray hair that’s not mine.

I looked up, fully expecting to see Colonel Sanders peering over the stall wall next to me.

Colonel: “How’s about you try my new Kentucky GRILLED Chicken, son?”

Me: “Grilled chicken? Here’s what I think of your grilled chicken.”

* insert massive poopie noises here (I like imagining Oprah after eating a chalupa..well..I don't LIKE to do it..but sometimes I just do)

Grilled chicken. WTF.

Hey, Colonel Sanders, I like my chicken like my women:

Crispy.

I have no idea what that means.


But no.

No Colonel Sanders was there with his bucket of awesomely tasty original recipe.

I stared at this long gray hair for about 2 more seconds before I came to this realization:

OMG OMG OMG it was a FUCKING HAIR THAT DRIFTED IN FROM SOMEWHERE ELSE IN THIS GODDAMN MEN’S ROOM!!!

With all the energy I had left (I was winded at this point because, honestly, I eat big)…

I blew that elderly follicle right the Hell off.

Jesus H. Christ.

That was close.

I do not know from where this mystery hair came from.

All I know is that I quickly pushed out the rest of my joyous happy bowel movement (JHBM)…

(20 more minutes counts as ‘quickly’ when I'm 'in the zone')

…and high tailed it right the Hell out of there.

Then I got me some tasty chicken.

NOT GRILLED.

Oh, Colonel, how your coleslaw taunts me.

Hey…dude...

Aren’t you supposed to be wearing a hair net?

The Grand Whiffer

..and that's how grandma got a sunburn.

Let me explain...

You see...

I’m a pretty gassy guy.

I’m not sure why...

...as it’s not like all I eat is beans and squirt cheese.

(Great...now I want beans and squirt cheese)

But really...

...most days I'm surprised that I just don't up and fucking float away.


Maybe all guys are like this, I’m not sure...

...but if I lived in the Renaissance period, my official title would be “Sir Tootsalot.”

Now, I’ve known my wife for just about 20 years...

...and I think she’s farted in front of me MAYBE once – completely by accident.


As such, if I need to cut one it usually has to be in a separate room (per her strict instructions)...

...or I have to try to get away with it somehow.


For example:

The In-Bed Stealth Method:

My "in-bed stealth method" involves me quietly reaching back and stretching my butt cheeks ridiculously far apart...

...so as to make a perfect “O” with my cornhole...

...thus eliminating the possibility for any sound to escape by scratching the sidewalls as it exits.

(I learned how to do this watching porn)


If she hears me crack one outside, though, I’m always instructed to “shake out my pants” before I get in the car.


The "shaking of the pants" procedure ...

(which involves me smacking myself on the ass in public)

...is intended to release any previously trapped gases that may be lingering in my jeans...

...thus escaping into the vehicle when I sit down…

…violently killing all inside.


We had just left the restaurant with my family and I had a good internal bubble going.

This, for me, is typical.

I usually take the opportunity of the loud clamoring of the car doors opening/closing, etc., etc., to make my gas expulsion blend in with the surrounding sounds.

Timing it precisely here eliminates me from admonishment...

...and the subsequent “shaking of the pants” act in the middle of a fucking parking lot.


I waited until the decibel level in the area was high enough...

...then let ‘er rip.

*ZZRRRRPPPPPFFFFPPTTHTHHHHHH*

Ahhhhhh.

If I had done this in an enclosed area, I can tell you that it would have been a bad one...

...because it came out HOT.

You know you've got a killer on your hands when it feels like you've farted the breath of the Devil himself.

(yes, now you know what Rachael Ray's breath is like)


Just for safety's sake, I rapped my butt one time with my hand to release the rest of the demons into the atmosphere before hopping into the car.

It was like an exorcism involving Levi's.

No one was the wiser.

(except for the pigeons I saw plummeting from the sky)

Regardless...

I stepped inside the car, closed the door and started putting on my seatbelt.

As I turned to grab the belt...

I saw her.

There...next to our car...I saw...

A little old lady sitting in the passenger seat of the car next to me.

* cricket

She was staring at me.

Her window was cracked a bit.

Oh.


Apparently, in my hurry to time everything just right, I neglected to see if there were any people in the general vicinity.

As such, I apparently aimed and shot that fucker right at her with full hurricane force.

My guess is that she was probably enveloped in my vaporized poo-cloud as we stared each other down…

...choking on it.

Yes, folks...

...she was dying.


I could see it in her sad little eyes:

Granny (pressing her hand to the window): “…why…?”

Me (pressing my hand to her window from the other side): "I'm so...sorry..."

*thump*

Dead.

My. God.

Me (getting into car): "Okay...Who wants ice cream?!"


Meanwhile...The Coroner's Report:

Cause of Death: Asphyxiation from a toxic gas made of nachos, garlic mashed potatoes and beer.

I'm sure she's probably not my first victim...

...and she certainly won't be my last.

Just ask the pigeons.

Sneaky...Like Ninja Dog Crap

Well..

It's Fall here in New England.

And that can only mean one thing.

What's the one thing, you ask?

You may be guessing that "Fall in New England" brings:

1) Vibrant Fall foliage bursting through the landscape

2) Crisp, fresh apples arriving in the orchards

3) The farms are full of joyous laughter from children on hay rides

4) Mental Poo will have a story about dog shit

If you were thinking anything other than #4, then you don't know me very well.

Hello?

Mental POO.

Moron.


You see...

..when the weather in New England starts to get cold, the leaves change color and begin falling off the trees.

It's truly magical.

I hate this.

I hate this not ONLY because it brings throngs of dipshits through my state with the sole purpose of looking at leaves.

Seriously..people.

They're LEAVES.

LEAVES.

You're looking at LEAVES.

How does this NOT make you sit back and go:

"Hey...honey...it just occurred to me that we've driven more than 3 hours to look at a red leaf."

Freaks.


So not only does the onset of Fall bring out those idiots, but it also brings about this phenomenon:

The mysterious and elusive camo-poo.

Yes.

Camo-poo.

Or, the proper Latin term:

Camouflageus Defecatious

Camouflaged poop.

Not mine, mind you.

My poop remains large with bright red stripes (I should probably have that checked out) and stares at me from my own toilet.

Seriously.

It's like the corn is peering into my very soul.

Freaks me out.


No...I'm talking about my dog's poop.

My dog has run of the yard...which is okay because she tends to launch her turds over near my back fence.

Where the trees are.

In the summer or winter, this is fine...because I can find the poop pretty easily.

Me: "AHA! There's the poop!"

num num num num.

I mean, um.

To scoop it up.

Phew.

Dodged a bullet there.

However...

Cover said poop now with 15 million goddamn leaves of all different shades of brown, green, red, brownish red, greenish red, taupe (taupe?!)...

...and finding said dog shit becomes an effort in detective work.

Here...let me show you some examples.

Here is a photo of a bunch of leaves in my yard.

Your task:

Can you spot the pieces of shit?

(click to enlarge...that's what she said)


Well...

How did you do?

Were you able to find the dog crap?

No?

Do you know why you couldn't find it?

Because it's all stuck to the bottom of my goddamn foot, that's why.

That's a fantastic feeling.

Let me tell you...

There's nothing better than going blind searching barefoot (yes...barefoot) through a pile of friggin' leaves like you were searching for diamonds and then realizing that OH..OH I JUST STEPPED ON A DIAMOND !!!...

...but instead of a diamond it's just a big, giant, squishy pile of dogshit.

Awesome.

Here...here's one you may fare better with.

Can you spot the pieces of shit?

Hint: there are three.

(click to enlarge)


There.

I made it easier for you.

I wish my dog would make it easier for me, though.

Maybe I'll start feeding her Chinese food.

Or better yet...

Maybe I'll just invite some of those stupid friggin' leaf-peepers over the house and wait for those stupid bastards to yell, "OH, JESUS!! I STEPPED IN CRAP!!"

Ha.

Serves 'em right.

Two birds, one stone.