FRIENDLY POOP!

Grendel's Revenge, or "How Fondue turned to Fondon't"

2006-08-11T02:35:00.000-04:00

Like a gazillion other kids in this country, I spent my formative college years in Boston. It was a great place to be an undergrad...tons of other schools, lots of young people everywhere, and a pretty and cosmopolitan city to boot.
Boston is just across the river from the intellectual haven of Cambridge- home of Harvard, M.I.T, and the beloved Julia C. Happysauce.
As far as ivy league schools that would never let me in go, Harvard would be my top choice, in terms of edumacashun and location. Thankfully, I was able to live vicariously through my friend Kaavya (I kid! I'm not telling you my friend's name- she might run for President one day.), who was a student there, while I was across the river at Boston University. I also spent some time working in Harvard Square at HMV Records, but you already know all about that.

So one day my friend and I hit a Harvard Square institution- Grendel's Den. And I said "Grendel"...not grundel. A grundel's den is entirely different...trust me. Or just ask this guy.

So Grendel's has been around for ages. People go and eat or drink and hang out in their idyllic "we're totally ivy league hippie intellectuals just relaxing and reading The New Yorker, chuckling along with the cartoons that you don't quite understand because we're smarter than all of you" front yard.

One thing Grendel's is famous for is fondue. There's just something about holding sticks around a flame that causes us to regress back to our primitive selves, because nothing gives white people food boners like fondue and s'mores seem to do. Think about it.
Or not.
Isn't it funny how one kind of gooey can really get your mouth watering, and another kind of gooey mess can make your mouth water, but in a bad way? Just some food for thought.

But I digress...
So my lovely Harvard pal and I decide to indulge in Grendel's lunchtime special. For roughly $25, the two of us would get a bottle of wine, cheese fondue, access to ONLY ONE PLATE (they were really uptight about this for some reason) at the salad bar, and then chocolate fondue dessert. We were beside ourselves with anticipation.
Obviously, the novelty factor hits you more when you get your first fondue dish. We're just staring with saucer-eyes and big shit-eating grins, like "OMIGAH WE'RE TOTALLY EATING FONDUE, GIRL!"
And you know, in retrospect, I don't know what the fuck was wrong with us. We were only 21 or 22, so I guess maybe we were easier to please? Whatever- she was the Harvard student, so I'm not even gonna try to speak for her. Us Boston University kids were just happy that we knew our school's mascot was a terrier named Rhett and that we had finally figured out how to get around on Boston's subway, the "T."
I swear- people would look at my beautiful friend and they'd be all, "You go to Harvard...nice!" and then they'd look at me and I'd holler "RHETT!" and then pick my nose for emphasis. Go terriers!

By the time the chocolate fondue dessert came out, we were like seasoned pros. We twirled the spears in our fingers and marveled over how much more fabulous we were, vis-a-vis the fondue.
Though, honestly- I was just relieved I didn't light my clothes on fire.

I also remember feeling relieved that Grendel's was a total tightwad about having more than one plate of salad from the salad bar, because we were already stuffed to the point of discomfort by the time we left.
Our once spritely conversation dwindled down to strange, contemplative pauses and pained grimaces. Like I said, I can't speak for my smart friend...maybe she was thinking about Stephen Hawking or Einstein or whatever it is smart people think about. As for me, I was wonderin g if fondue comes out the same way it goes in. Are you surprised?

So get this- apparently Harvard kids can also experience gastrointestinal distress. I know- I'm still reeling from the discovery.
But if anything, finding out this gem of info only made me love my friend more. It's like we bonded over our mutual-sudden-lower-abdominal-vice-grip. As we both walked frantically towards our respective routes home, there was a silent understanding, if not respect. In a matter of minutes, we knew we'd both be hunched over porcelain bowls, rocking back and forth, sweating perhaps, questioning what the big fucking deal about fondue was, together. She was no longer the Harvard girl, and I was no longer the retard from across the river. We were the same. It took a loose lunch at Grendel's to help us reach this epiphany, but I will forever be grateful.

hot time, summer in the shitty!

2006-08-11T02:15:00.000-04:00

believe me- i love new york. LOVE THIS CITY !
but sometimes it can get ripe here. you know what i mean...
it's that "not so fresh feeling."
where all the loofahs in the world couldn't make it clean again. *le sigh*

but when i see genius like this, it only solidifies my belief in this town.
shit + art + clever blogging= new york shitty!

Gassafrass!

2006-08-08T11:16:00.000-04:00

sweet jesus, it's been a while!
it's not that i haven't been thinking & talking about you-know-what.
i've just been really busy...and sometimes i wonder if i'm becoming just a little bit more demure.
naaaaah. i'm just a busy bird, bitches!
it can be a real challenge setting aside all the pressing work that needs to be done just to make time for this vanity project.
but alas- thank you for your patience. i will try to make it up to you. but probably not.

so- last night a big freaky bunch of us went to eat at Taco Chulo.
if you don't hablo espanol, you might think Taco Chulo means "fart factory." we all did.
but apparently, it means "taco pimp." it might be considered perverted if it weren't so goshdarn tasty!
seriously- while i'm admittedly about to get into the minutiae of the aftershocks of the meal, let me stress: this place has got good eats. from the faggy cocktails and sangria to gordita burritos and killer guacomole, plus tons of meat/dairy-free food for all my pesky vegan friends. bottom line: everyone leaves stuffed and happy.

but when you're ready to leave- and let me stress: ready to leave... you know it.
there's no lingering around the restaurant. no waiter-rage-inducing extended conversations at the table.
cause the pressure in your chest, abdomen, and outer fartbox is telling you straight up: "get thee to a toilet, pronto."

that's how it happened with me last night. i grabbed my man, said hurried goodbyes, and started moving. i thought that if maybe i was vertical, things would pass down more gracefully, and i'd feel less bloatfenstein.

i know sometimes you guys think i'm some kind of medical wizard, but i'm gonna tell you something: i am.
still- that idea didn't work for whatever scientific reason, moon phase, mercury maybe being in retrograde or not.
my educated hypothesis just didn't work. i know... it shook me up too.

so i started feeling full, then gassy, then full and gassy, and then full, gassy, and a little bit barfy.
then the burps would come up and be kind of juicy and taste like nachos and then for a second, i'd be all, "hey, nachos!" but then i would realize, "hey...nachos..."

so i get home and get in the fetal position for a while. i wasn't at the pooping stage- that was this morning. and yes, it was curiously impressive.
so i just kinda tried to relax my lower bottom parts. i let my sphincter get comfortable enough to accept that things were about to get pretty confrontational.
sure enough, the cacophony of farts began. i'm so glad my man loves me. because i produced sounds that didn't sound right at all, in terms of noises that would come out of a real, live human being.
thankfully, they were on the violently forceful side...this is a good thing, friends, as those sharp, loud ones are relatively odorless. honest!
i mean, if you wanna get scientific about it, as i am a medical professional, it's the ones that are hot that are the most putrid smelling. if it's hot, and if it feels like it's kinda speading all over on its way out...you're in trouble. however, if you feel like it's a sharp kind of pressure, like you could slice your chair with it if you pushed hard enough...or maybe even levitate- those don't tend to smell. what they lack in odor they make up for in brute force.

anyways, the moral of the story is that when you fart you feel much better and less barfy.
lemme know if you'd like a prescription with that solid piece of medical advice, suckas!

potty patrol on v-day.

2006-05-31T23:54:00.000-04:00

we've been on a mini-vacation of sorts, so many apologies for the lacking entries. but we think this following story will make up for it.
we will start off with the all-important question... the question that keeps many of us up at nights:

what is the deal with bathroom attendants?
seriously. why are they there?

i say this because i was recently reminded of a particularly drunken night in manhattan, on valentines day, 2003. i spent it with two friends at Florent, a lovely food spot that i highly recommend.
it all started out fine enough...hearty food, gossip, a cold winter night with no sex in sight, so i was just porkin away at the food and not worried about all the post-gorge bloat.
and oh yeah- lots of red wine.
i should mention that i have a laughable tolerance level...don't be fooled by the girth. i have the booze capacity of a squirrel.
my friends just kept filling up my wine glass. i honestly don't know how much i drank, but it was enough to feel very happy and retarded.
so after our gorge-fest at Florent, we stumble out into the New York night, stuffed and tipsy. we decide to go get a drink at the Chelsea Hotel. the bar was in the basement, and it was a bit on the cheesy side (not surprisingly). it kinda reminded me of the Regal Beagle. but thankfully there was no Mr. Furley, or Larry, or that creepy dyke, Janet.

so we start boozing it up some more...i was beside myself with glee after finding candy hearts scattered all over the tables (remember- it was Valentine's Day). i swear- throw free goodies at me and i'll be your bitch forvever. and they all had updated sayings on them too, like "email me" and "boo ya."
so i'm feeling nice and stupid and just sober enough to feel a lot of sudden pressure on my fartbox. i couldn't tell if it was just monster gas or an incognito shit attack. i decided to hit the loo, to be on the safe side.
so i weave throughout this lounge/bar, trying not to get too dizzy or have a seizure from staring at the checkered floors. i honestly hate black and white checkered floors. that shit makes my eyes cross.
so i finally find the bathroom, and it's a relief, cause by this point i realize a wet turtle head is about to create some unwelcome leakage so i just tighten my brown pucker for all it's worth.
i swing the door open and find a bathroom attended on her stool just staring blankly at me. she's not even gonna try to smile. cause, c'mon, she knows she's not fooling anyone by pretending to be all stoked to be working in the crapper on Valentine's Day. she's in this weird suit/uniform. like she's an extra from the Sgt. Pepper cover photoshoot.
so i see her. we make eye contact and i freeze. a split second passes and i debate turning right around and getting out of there. but the pressure on my fartbox is showing no mercy. the booze in me joins the mental rationale and says, "don't worry! do your business! you'll never see her again!"

i just shrugged and smiled at her and went into my own fake-private stall. as i hovered over the toilet, i plugged my ears up with my fingers...i don't know why. i think in my drunk state i thought if i couldn't hear the farts, neither could the bathroom attendant. alcohol works in funny ways for all of us.

so off i went...a preposterously loud fart screeched out, followed by another and another, and then the shit hailed down. and i'm not joking when i say "hailed," cause that shit literally was hitting the porcelain bowl with loud splashes and thuds. it was like those old episodes of Batman, when someone gets punched and you get the big "POW!" screen graphic. except here it wasn't Batman in a fight. it was my kaka.

it finally became so ridiculous that i cracked, mind the pun, and just started laughing my ass off. i couldn't stop. i had to balance myself so the poop trajectory remained inside the bowl. i was convulsing from laughing and hyperventilating. i didn't know what else to do at that point. i figured the attendant would eventually join me in the guffaws, but no such luck.

i finally wrapped it up, wiped up my eyes, wiped up my poop chute, and opened the door triumphantly. i made an "oopsie daisy" face and said "SOOOOORRRRRYYYY!"

and you know what? that attendant's face did not change at all. she just kept looking at me like she could see right through me. it kinda made it akward.
so i start washing my hands, feeling a little hurt, looking over all the hair supplies and candies and refreshments that have for you in the bathroom. like, if you pay a couple bucks, you can have some hair mousse and a tic tac. and then i see a tip bowl.
a tip bowl!
as if i didn't feel like a big enough dick for having a loud, splashy shit and lauging hysterically at myself in front of this stranger. i didn't even have my purse with me, so i couldn't give her a tip if i wanted to. but then i was all woman scorned, like, WTF? why should i have to tip to take a shit? if anything, she should have tipped me for the selfless entertainment.

and it wasn't like i wanted a tic tac or needed hairspray or whatever. i just had to empty my wretched bowels.
so i went back to my seat feeling hated and told my friends i wanted to go. and then i gave the leather-bound bill holder to the waitress and she left and then came right back and said "you forgot to put your credit card in." and then i did and she came back and was all "you forgot to sign your receipt" and then i was all, "why are you trying to ruin my life?"

so we headed back out into the cold, cold night and the buzz has deteriorated into some kind of cranky, sore-ass, dejected state. i just wanted to go home and hopefully sleep without booting. i try hailing a cab which can be a bitch on a weekend night in Chelsea, especially when you are a tired drunk who feels super dissed by the bathroom attendant.
a taxi finally pulls up and this trifling white bitch who tried to dress up like she was Carrie on "Sex and the City" and probably spent the whole night drinking cosmopolitans bacuse thats what they drank on the show and she was also prolly bullimic and stupid and makes more money than i ever will, catapults herself in front of me and attempts to steal the car!
i got in my oh-hell-no-i-will-cover-my-face-in-vaseline-and-jump-this-bitch stance. i let the hellfire take over. i just started yelling THAT'S MINE! MY CAB! and showed her my sharp tooth. yup...the incisor. that usually does the trick.

but her steroid-hulk boyfriend pops out of nowhere and stares me down... and then, because i'm mostly lame, i had to let it go. but i muttered and cursed for a while before skulking away, feeling like a bigger tard than earlier, when the bathroom attendant told me she hated me and my loud butt with those dead eyes of hers.
so, i guess my point is this: wtf is up with bathroom attendants? who wants to feel judged while on the shitter? also, how do you even get that job? who writes up the classified ad for it? don't these things keep you up at night, too?

fart attack

2006-05-24T15:33:00.000-04:00

have you ever had a screaming fart? i'm not talking farts on fire...i'm talking about when you have those ominous "danger: messy poop ahead" farts. and the thing is, your sphincter will clamp down in anticipation. it will literally try to strangle itself. so when you fart again, a high-pitched squeal will escape your butthole.
it's like when you slowly let air out of a balloon and it makes that !eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! sound, you know? but then, maybe, you'll force it, and it will sound like there's a gerbil up your butt screaming to get out.
as if your butt developed a mouth and is all peeeeeeeeeew!
i dunno. things like that make me laugh. i'm not saying the thought keeps me up at night, but sometimes i get real introspective-like and think about this shit.

can we poop triangles?

2006-05-21T23:15:00.000-04:00

because sometimes, when i'm dumping, that shit feels like a goddamned ninja throwing-star. i mean, it's f-ing traumatic. it's got the sharp edges and angles and it is like a parallelogram is trying to break down my butt door.

so i'll be hunched over and cringing and, you know, rocking back and forth trying to ease it out gently... and all the while, i'm all, "is this what childbirth is going to be like?" and then i'll finish and feel kinda exhausted and sore. then i'll look in the toilet bowl, and see a small fucking DORITO grinning back at me. WTF? that's it?! i mean, for all that work and stress i want to see serious geometry going on in the bowl...not some simpleton shape that looks like a kitten doo doo.

once a Looza, always a Looza!

2006-05-15T21:15:00.000-04:00

like i said before, kids- i'm a nostalgic bitch. so let's continue the periodic visits down memory lane, shall we?
this story in particular has curiously become the most requested among all my poop-delighting friends. i will say that this anecdote is probably best told in person, what with all my animated gesticulating and dramatic bloviating.
anyhoo-
it was the summer of 1995 in Boston. me and three other girls in a craptastic two bedroom apartment walk-up.
with no air-conditioning.
between the sweaty, uncomfortable heat and the over-crowding and the general histrionic bullshit that 19-20 year old girls will succumb to, it was a challenging time to say the least. i was working part-time at a music superstore chain in Harvard Square. i don't really remember much about what i did there...usually just clockwatching and reigning over the label maker in the back office. i was a total label terrorist. i would make asinine labels and stick them on everything. suddenly "boobies" and "queeF latifah" and "ANAL*SCANTRON" stickers mysteriously started appearing all over the store (is it any wonder i'd start a poop blog?). it was like my own twist on the "andre the giant has a posse" phenomena, only much, much gayer.
anyhoo-
the heat was especially oppressive one night. i could barely sleep. and when i wasn't sleeping, i was crying because i was too hot to sleep. even our retarded, hallucinatory-prone cat kept jumping into the toilet to get wet, then would stand in front of the fan to cool down. that cat may have liked charging head-first into walls for no reason, but after i saw her do that, her ass was Einstein as far as i was concerned.
anyhoo-
holy shit it was hot! i didn't have to get to work until that afternoon, but i thought "fuckthatshit ," and decided to go early and take advantage of the arctic, corporate air-conditioned heaven. so what if they were playing Blues Traveler and Natalie Merchant and Hootie on repeat? granted- on a typical day at the store, especially by the end of the work day, i'd threaten to stab myself in the head with the label maker if they didn't stop playing that shit. but on this one day i could tune anything out...all i could think about was getting to a dry, cool place to sit my fat ass down in.
anyhoo-
i started getting ready for work nice and early that morning. i opened up the fridge and noticed one of my roommates had bought a bottle of Looza apricot nectar. i was parched and sweaty and because i'm not as smart as my cat, drinking water or dousing myself with water never occurred to me. but when i saw that tall bottle of cold, cold apricot juice...it was like a religious experience. the Looza was like St.Christopher, guiding me through a barren desert hell. i swore i saw a halo hovering above the bottle, but maybe that was just the heat and lack of sleep making me delirious.
i threw all my roommate-shared-food-rules out the window, grabbed the Looza, and chugged it down like a frat boy. i literally inhaled over half of it. i'd replace it later, i thought. i'd apologize to my roommate, and plead insanity.

so, i start walking the half-a-mile to the bus stop. i'm feeling refreshed, hydrated, and fantasizing about swimming in a giant slurpee. my stomach starts rumbling. i figure, whoa, all that Looza must have made me hungry. but... i didn't feel hungry. i felt a little woozy, actually. it was one of those things that make ya go, "hmmm."

i saw the bus approaching at approximately the same time i felt my stomach drop. whatever phantom feeling had developed in my stomach quickly migrated through my colon and started threatening my brown clown. i didn't know what to do...i didn't think i'd make it home before the wave of explosive diarrhea would consume me. i couldn't deal with going home and hovering above our sweaty toilet/cat swimming pool. if i was gonna be a mess, i might as well be a mess in air-conditioning. i hopped on the bus.
and wouldn'tcha know it! the bus was packed like sardines. there was nowhere to sit. i quickly realized this as the doors shut and we started the bumpy ride down Harvard Avenue towards Cambridge. the reason this is important, friends, is as simple as this: gravity. the gravitational pull of my rectum wasn't being helped by me being vertical. it's as if the brown clown knew that a deluge of its own brand wouldn't be stopped until it hit the floor. somehow, when i'm seated on a firm spot, the clown relaxes a bit. it buys me time, see?
so...
i'm freaking out. and i'm getting sweaty...but not heat-related sweaty. more of a "i'm going to shit on the bus" kind of sweaty. every minor pothole we hit, every little bump...was duly noted by my butthole. i'm standing up, holding on to a pole for balance, with people shoved up against me. i was inhaling other people's sweat and armpits and at one point, somebody totally released a silent but deadly guff and it wasn't me. i knew it wasn't me, because i wouldn't take that chance. i could try to let a little guff escape, but then i'd leave an opening for the poop to break on through. i cursed whoever that fucker was because i was sure that it would somehow be contagious and cause my poo chute to go slack, correspondingly. like a call to arms or something...like, "it's alright, fellas! let 'er rip!"

ok. it was hot and sweaty and silent-farty. i was standing in the most awkward, twisted position ever. i was trying to keep the lower half of my body rigid and stable. i was trying not to shit on the bus.
i tried to go to that special place in my mind, where i could pretend this was not happening. but it wouldn't work, as i slowly realized that apricot nectar was really no different than prune juice. and that i had effectively drank a quart of laxative. for a moment, the shit pains and ass-clenching terror faded as the sheer stupidity of what i had done dawned on me. but then the turtle-head urgency hit again. about every 2 minutes or so, i was convinced i was going to shit my pants. i'd pray, pray, pray to the poop god, and somehow, it would pass. then 2 minutes later, the same.

miraculously, i reached Harvard Square without soiling myself. still- the store i worked at was a good 4 block hike. i don't know how i did it... i just waddled. i must have looked like a penquin, going side to side like a giant bell.
but then, as they like to say in New England: wicked pissah! i forgot i had to climb up a massive flight of stairs to get to the back office! i hopped up those stairs like a bunny, two feet at a time.

it was a blur for a bit after that...i ran towards the back of the store, hearing bits of "hey! what are you going here so earl..." and the really old school boston dude who was my boss, going: "where's the fiyah?"
i made it to the back. the bathroom had two stalls in it. i slammed the door open and came face-to-face with one of the sweeter girls who also worked there. she was just starting to wash her hands, and was all: "Oh, hey!" but i was all "GET OUT! GET OUT! EMERGENCY! GET OUT!!!" in my devil voice. she took off running with her wet hands. i had to spend the next two weeks apologizing profusely to her before she'd look me in the eyes again. she was a gentle soul, that townie.
anyhoo-
my ass made it safely to the porcelain bowl, but not before releasing a massive sea of shit. it started flowing as soon as i assumed a semi-squatting position. thankfully, the poop trajectory was a bulls-eye. and whoa! i didn't even know i could have that much poop in my body. everytime i thought i was done, another round. and everytime i'd hear someone approaching the bathroom's door, i'd shriek "I'M NOT DONE, GODDAMMIT!"

i have to say, when it was all over about a half an hour later...i felt like a million bucks! i looked in the mirror...i had a fine sheen of cold sweat on me, and my hair was nappy, but i was all, damn, i think i lost weight! and really- i just felt too relieved to be embarrassed. even when i opened the door and found a few of my fellow employees hootin' and hollerin' and giving me a standing ovation. it was so weird. i was all, "whats up, bitches!" and walked to my station at the front registers. damn right, it was a good day.

oprah

2006-05-11T12:54:00.000-04:00

i swear to god, i was just watching O. She had the cast of Will & Grace on, and she started going off on a tangent about how it's good to talk about poop with people!
she said it was a great equalizer and that it helps everyone realize that we're all the same.
we are all like Oprah, PEEEEEEOOOPPLLLEE!
there's a reason this bitch is a kajillionaire. i'm a new devotee, y'all.

jane says... i've got the runs today. you treat me like a crumbly..

2006-05-10T23:51:00.000-04:00

i'm a nostalgic bitch, kids.
i have a Proust-like response to all kinds of scents, songs, places. something random will trigger the reaction, then boom- it's like a punch to the gut, and a flood of memories wash over me...

don't worry, this isn't turning into an emo livejournal. i bring this up because this afternoon i started thinking about traumatic events in my life that had to do with poop. there are many, and i plan on documenting them all here at some point or another.

but today, a song popped up on my iTunes, via my guily-pleasures:songs-of-my-high-school-experience "playlist." it was a jane's addiction song (so cleverly referenced in the title of this post). and then, BOOM!

suddenly i went back in time! i remembered sights, sounds, the ripe smells, the hunched over shit pains...like the taste of madeleines brought back so many childhood memories for Proust, i was similarly bombarded with clear, sensory reminders of that awful day in a port-0-potty. it was Lollapalooza 1993. late summer. WEST VIRGINIA!

see- the fateful night before, my dad had ordered a "meat lovers" pizza from Pizza Hut. all my friends were vegetarians, but i was all, "yay! i luv carcass!" uppity and righteous. i savored every last porky, sausagey, loose, mystery-meaty morsel.

the next day started off fine enough...we piled into my best friend's sweet gold minvan and we left our comfy suburban Maryland homes for the big event at Charlestown Racetrack in West Virginia. it was a tyical, late summer day...hot and humid at 10 am. by noon, it's like you're sitting in someone's armpit. but i digress...back to Lollapalooza, 1993.

we walked across the lawn toward the stage and all the tents, and quickly observe the total freak scene. among them- the perry farrell wannabes, the grungemeisters, the douchebag jocks whose lives were just changed by the Red Hot Chili Peppers' opus, "Under the Bridge." me and my posse were already into Sonic Youth and riot girrrl at that point, so of course, we thought we were the shizzz.

i think i started feeling queesy during Arrested Development's set, but i let the adrenaline of getting psyched to see Dinosaur Jr. distract me for a while.
but soon i started sweating even more profusely and feeling nauseous. it was turning scary. i mean, i was in f-ing WEST VIRGINIA, lost in a crowd of freakazoids and i had/have an intense fear of vomiting.
after a few minutes of panicky sweating, the wave of pukey-ness passed and for a brief second, i thought, "phew."
then BOOM! BOOM!

my stomach started to cramp up, like it was folding inward, and then i felt my poop-chute start to spastically contract. i had to find a bathroom fast. i knew i had a turtle-head poking and it was quickly dissolving into something less...solid. the poking suddenly felt more...melty. and more... urgent.

a weed-soaked, dreadlocked white kid took mercy upon me after seeing me waddle around (cuz i was trying to squeeze my buttcheeks together so as to abort any spontaneous wet farts). it was clear i was lost and on some enigmatic level, desperate.
he asked me if i wanted to get high. i respond by shouting" "MAYBE LATER BUT RIGHT NOW I HAVE TO SHIT!"
he graciously led me to a graffiti-covered row of port-o-potties. it was like an oasis of paradise initially. for a second there, i was really convinced i was going to soil myself. in WEST VIRGINIA!

now, dig if you will, a picture: a sweaty, Lollapalooza port-o-potty in August heat. a damp jail cell of horrific stranger poo and stranger pee and stranger diarrhea and stranger used condoms and stranger stained toilet paper. all kinds of janky stranger sundries i wanted nothing to do with.

friends, i tell you, it was then and there that i finally understood what it meant to transcend a situation. to "go to another place" in ones mind. because i knew if i let myself become too aware of my surroundings, i was gonna get completely batshit insane freakaboo.

i'm not a religious bitch, but i'd be lying if i didn't tell you about praying to the poop god for mercy. i swore up and down i'd never eat anything with "meat lovers" in the title, and that if he would just let me get out of there alive, i'd become a better person and i'd stop attending retarded, outdoor music festivals in the dead of summer.

i frantically covered up the warm, sticky toilet chair as much as i could and quickly sat down and let loose. an overdue, thunderous, poop hurricane ensued. windy, wet farts started the seige. the meat pizza was exacting its revenge on me. i wondered if it was karma from inhaling all the mystery meat. i was prolly the only meat eater at the entire festival. in that sea of manic panic hair and altrock vegetarians...was this some kind of message?
i wondered if my friends would ever find me. i was about to go to college. or was i going to die in a freak accident? was i going to shit myself to death in a port-o-potty at an average Lollapalooza that was being held at a racetrack?
in WEST VIRGINIA??

and listen- getting violent diarrhea is horrible, no matter where you are geographically. but something about anal leakage and West Virginia...it makes sense on so many levels. but the mortification cancelled out any moment of clarity i could have gotten from that.

after about the eighth round of shooting hot, burning liquid out of my kaboose, i finally felt alright. i was almost 100% sure i wasn't going to shit in my pants. i was still in my "heavy denial of current surroundings" mode, but i instinctively knew i'd make it out alive.
i was a dehydrated mess, but on a mission to get back to Maryland sweet Maryland as soon as possible. i managed to convince my ladyfriends to leave early. i worked the whole "getting out of the parking lot first and avoiding traffic" angle. they took pity on me, the angels.

visit POOPOPOLIS...land o'plenty.

2006-05-10T01:27:00.000-04:00

on the brilliant site, smellypoop.com, you'll find answers to everything you've always wanted to know about poop, plus some killer drawings to boot. i promise you will enjoy it. you'll laugh and you'll cry, but in a good, non-emo way.

some highlights:

* "How come when you eat corn, no matter how much you chew it, you poop it out in whole kernals?"
* "How does poop stay together, like in links?"
and last but not least...
* "Is it possible to vomit poop?"

gnarly!!

be sure to check out the "What Happens When I'm At WORK and I have to Poop?" section.
it really hits close to home.

you'll also find a buttload of poop-reference terms you never even knew about. soon you'll be droppin all kinds of slang like a pro!

i think i'm toilet japanese!

2006-05-08T00:25:00.000-04:00

like i said in my first post- other cultures sometimes celebrate poop and toilets and what not.
for example, there's this series of japanese toilet commercials...and while i can't understand anything they're singing about (other than the term "apricot" which may or may not be a sly euphamism for a fragrant turd), i can tell that everyone is STOKED!
they're stoked about hanging out around the toilet bowl, they're stoked about hopping off a pot and flushing it together, they're stoked about dressing up the toilet seat, they're stoked about doing some kind of interpretive dance around the toilet to please their master/ former singer of Pizzicato Five...

when will we be able to see these kinds of tributes to the toilet in the U.S.?
seriously...what the f is she singing about and why does it make us so happy? it doesn't matter! because it's genius, and in a way, a testament to the beauty of japanese minimalism. think about it...if this commercial was attempted in America, you'd totally see a floater at some point.

"toilet stool rap"

2006-05-07T23:08:00.000-04:00

i love the BM. Biz Markie that is!
who doesn't??
(if you don't, then please take your jank ass and leave this pro-BM blog)

Biz makes the case here for how sitting on the crapper can inspire creative epiphanies:

"I would walk into the bathroom to take a crap
I sit down, and then I write me a toilet stool rap
Whether I'm constipated or have diarrhea
I always come out with a funky fresh idea"

in this thoughtfully considered video, he visually recreates his artistic process for us to see.
long live Biz.

misty mountain plop

2006-05-07T01:11:00.000-04:00

i used to have a crazy roommate with an eating disorder. she'd subsist on minimal amounts of broccoli and nuts and then she'd faint and blame it all on her meds. anyways- her diet played a large part in her distinctive bowel movements. i think i managed to stay sane around her and avoid absorbing her crazy germs by keeping her busy talking about poo.

we bonded over one particular movement called the "ranger."
a ranger is when your poo peaks above water level, not unlike a majestic mountain range.

first and foremost: a poop primer

2006-05-06T23:39:00.000-04:00

lets get this out of the way: i'm a classy bitch.
but i'm also a classy bitch who likes talking about poop.
i think it's the funniest shit ever. literally!
but don't worry- this is simply a safe haven for musings on poop. i will not be accosting you with images of hot, steamy dumps. unless they're super funny. but i'm really going to try not to.

i don't understand why there's such a stigma about it. everybody poops. you've seen the book at Urban Outfitters...you know what i'm talking about. everyone really does poop. your pets poop. sometimes their shit is like pebbles. sometimes it's like a fat caterpillar parade. sometimes they're like golf balls. and sometimes...sometimes that shit is like a paint splat.

i have an admitted penchant for talking about shit. it's interesting to me. some cultures celebrate it. i just think everyone should relax and be more open to frank discussions about the miracles/hindrances of poop. it's a universal bond. are you a republican? i can almost forgive you... like, maybe if we talked about our respective post-coffee shits that morning. cause that's when we're all equal, see? (even though i'd still talk shit about you later and prolly pretend i don't even know you)

but i digress...

friends have always told me i should share my poop talk with the world. they've always seemed to find it a source for amusement. the point is- if it entertains you even for a second, why not? aren't you bored at work somewhere or procrastinating or something? i mean, why else would you even be reading this?

i hope you enjoy my thoughts and observations and that they encourage you to be more vocal about your own sphincter squeezes, at the very least.