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Joy of Poop


N. eats gruel, at least that’s what it looks like. Fiber stirred into yogurt. Resembling the stuff Biafran children, stick figures with bellies distended and flies buzzing around cartoon sized heads, scoop up with their fingers. N. grimaces after each bite and quickly washes it down.

N. confesses that she has trouble pooping.

My bowels are as reliable as the atomic clock. Twice a day at least. The trains are never late. I also get the urge to go every time I’m in an office building or a facility where strangers are milling about. An instinct urges me to mark my turf. I know where the good and bad public restrooms are around town. I’m a connoisseur of the loo.

I’ve known a lot of women with blockages of the poop chute. Well, not a lot. Relatively speaking, I mean. Not one man has ever complained to me about his irregularity. Only with female friends (especially lovers) do I have “close encounters of the turd kind”.

J. had a miserable time with it. She’d take my hand and make me probe a spot on her lower abdomen, like waiting for a baby to kick, and there would be the knot. “See?” she’d say and frown, shaking her head. C. usually had an enema bag draped indelicately over the edge of the bathtub. More than one was fond of, if not addicted to, laxatives. I found confirmation of my suspicions with an internet search. Women are more prone to constipation than men (or at least complain to their doctors more) and the medical profession isn’t sure why.  

N. got me thinking. As much as I dwell on my own shit (the figurative kind), I almost never contemplate my own shit (the literal kind). So here is my own personal taxonomy of crap. I thought it important to drop it on you. To lay it out there. To push the load your way. To rub your noses in it.

Easy come, Easy go: The healthy version. Effortless. Pale and intact in the pot. Barely a smudge on the T.P.

Mud Pie: Pasty. Yucky. Lengthy clean up required for both dispenser and receptacle. Multiple flushes to wash away the stubborn, clinging spot. Or, horror, the brush!

Loch Ness: A rare sighting requiring photographic evidence or a credible witness to be believed.

Sand Bar: A thin layer of granular sediment. Disappointing and uninspiring.

Packing Peanuts: Like the little Styrofoam chunks wedged around the new tea chest. Methane rich, floating little stinkers.

The Runs: No explanation required although the occasional projectile “Ladder 7” version is worth noting.

Kaleidoscope: Too much avocado yields an almost fluorescent green. Beets once scared the shit out of me (pun intended).

Oh Baby! Oh Baby!: Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. The orgasmic poop. Requiring just the right amount of effort. Fulfilling (especially the “album rock” version).  A glass of wine would be nice. Smoke if it’s your habit.

There you go. Under most wonderful things you can do without props or a Platinum Visa, pooping probably ranks 3rd.

1. Fucking

2. Sleeping

3. Pooping

More gruel, please.

Mick

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Categories: A Day in the Life...
  1. Gary Templeton
    July 24, 2010 at 9:25 pm

    Twice a day? Once for me. Maybe I need more fiber and fruit. I’ve had the “mud pie” after stretches of time without proper fiber (because I was afraid to eat the local produce). No fun and it runs up the TP bill. The Runs? Only after Puerto Rico. Two weeks of I’m getting better…no I’m not! What no alcohol or spicy food till it’s gone? Note to self…last time I get in the ocean in a third world country, I mean territory of the US. What’s the difference?

    Need a toilet like those in Japan. A water jet that washes the – OH YEAH! Very refreshing.

  2. July 24, 2010 at 10:10 pm

    I forgot “Lift Off”, the jet propulsion poop that threatens to hurl you into the opposite wall. I’ve experienced them all.

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