SOCIAL NETWORKING: A 100-WORD STORY

Brian was one of those people who sit at stoplights picking their noses, not caring whether they have an audience. And right now he was in full-on Booger-Hunt Mode, index finger crammed into his right nostril to the second knuckle.

Success! He carefully extracted the glistening prize, pausing a moment to examine it.

Now, a decision. Roll it between his fingertips, forming a flickable pellet, or wipe it on the floormat?

Neither. He carefully applied it to the window. Within moments, his friends all knew of his achievement, thanks to the newest, most revolting social networking site of all...

Paste-Boog.

MADISAURUS REX

During our recent all-too-brief sojourn in Texas, we had a chance to hang out with our nephew William and niece Madison... not to mention Elder Daughter, who also made the trek out west to be with us.

Madison, who is all of three years old, is what you might call a handful.


Madison rides her Artificial Horsie. Yippee-ki-yay!

She is already a past master at the art of manipulation - no surprise, given that she has her big brother upon whom to practice. But she is sweet as sugar... most of the time.

Even though she shares none of my DNA, she seems to have inherited some abilities from me. The tale is told that one recent day, after having completed her toilet training, she announced to her Daddy that she would be “making a poop.” He in turn asked her to call him when she was finished if she needed help cleaning herself up... and when he arrived in the bathroom upon receiving the summons, she announced, “Daddy - you do not want to see what’s in here.”

Perhaps not... but the Guinness Book folks might have. That’s my niece! [When she reads this in twenty years or so, she’ll strangle me.]

Her Daddy has taken to calling her “Madisaurus Rex.” I think it’s a perfect cognomen.

TO A ROSE... IN A WHITE BOWL

Fair Throne, thou art the Place where I must sit
When Nature’s Needs arise, as needs they must.
I perch upon you, there to take a Shit,
Alas, though, when that Shit should form a Crust.

That Crust offends by giving off a Smell
Compos’d of Vileness, with the Reek of Doom.
O Throne, thou causeth Senses to rebel
When I must needs stop by the “Little Room.”

But, hark! A Sound is stealing on my Ear,
The Sound of Brushing, Flushing, and a Swish!
It tells me that there is no Need to fear
A crusted Pot, within to Poop or Pish.

To drop the Kids off at the Pool I go,
The Throne, it sparkles - thanks to Tae D Bo.

[Being a Sonnet in Iambic Pooptameter.]

ENTERTAINMENT IS WHERE YOU FIND IT

On my way to Dunwoody for a meeting this morning, I was stopped at a traffic light... where I was treated to the spectacle of the driver in the car next to me, engaged with complete and total concentration in a Booger-Hunt.

He would fish around in his nostrils, after which he would withdraw his Nasal Entrenching Tools - his fingers - and examine them closely. This would be followed by the classic fingertip-roll (a favorite Booger Drying Technique), after a few moments of which he would, so to speak, go back to the well.

Good Gawd, thought I. Has this guy forgotten that glass is transparent? That people can see what he is doing? Yeef.

Of course, you could ask me the inevitable question: Why the hell were you watching him, occupied as he was in his Solitary Pursuit? And I would answer: It’s like a car wreck. Try as you may to resist the urge to rubberneck, you cannot.

Entertainment, says I, is where you find it.

THE NUCLEAR OPTION

Dinner tonight consisted of boneless beef short ribs, char-grilled after having been doused in a Korean-style marinade of soy, rice vinegar, sesame oil, garlic, pear, and sliced scallions. Delicious.

Sticking with the Korean theme, I served myself some kimchi on the side. And since there was no way in hell SWMBO was gonna eat that kimchi, I roasted some Brussels sprouts to serve as a second vegetable.

Kimchi and Brussels sprouts. Now, there’s a combination to conjure with.

If there is a better recipe for Nuclear Farts, I have yet to find it. Hell, the flatulence that resulted from yesterday’s Kimchi Omelette was enough to make strong men weep: Adding the sprouts is like throwing gasoline on a fire.

I’ll be heading up to the bedroom in a few moments, and my only hope is that the Missus is sleeping deeply enough so that the intermittent Stench-Bombs don’t awaken her.

I’ll bet they make for some really interesting dreams, though...

ON COMMAND

Let me tell you of Ed “Poppa” Squizzot
Who can crap you a crap on command:
He’ll respond to a whispered suggestion
Or a casual wave of the hand,
And then he will curl you a steamer
Delivering at your request.
If you need a turd, pay Pop Squizzot a vizzot,
’Cause of all the Loaf-Pinchers, he’s best!

ONE OF THOSE MORNINGS

It was one of those mornings. Every Man-Jack (and Woman-Jill) among us has had ’em.

The Australian aboriginal people speak of the Three-Dog Night, a night so cold that one must snuggle up to not one, not two, but three dingoes in order to keep from freezing. Well, I had a three Q-Tip Morning... and I’ll spare you the details and explanations.

As if that were not bad enough, I proceeded to botch my Morning Shave.

Look: Shaving isn’t all that difficult, especially in this age of multi-laminar safety razors. But there is one cardinal rule that you violate at your extreme peril. Always be sure the path of the blade as it travels across your face is perpendicular to its edge. If you get careless - even for a second! - you will not merely nick yourself - you will flense yourself. That’s what I did, and it’s a damn good thing I had the stub end of a styptic pencil within reach.

Last time I saw that much blood come out of me, I was at the Red Cross, donating a pint of my good old A-Positive. Thank Gawd SWMBO was there to help me bandage it up.

Aside from these few Ablutionary Adventures, though, everything has been going swimmingly. Hope your day is as much fun!

BUNWAD REPORT

People who have been reading this stupid-ass site for years know that Yours Truly fancies himself a bit of an expert in the matter of Abstergent Paper. You know: Tee Pee. Bunwad.

It’s a product with which we all are all too familiar.

I’ll admit right up front that both She Who Must Be Obeyed and I are creatures of habit when it comes to Matters Toiletpaperical. We tend to rely on the same brand day after day, year after year, only rarely straying from the path of the Tried and True.

Let’s face it: once you have found a product that you like, there’s not much upside for making a switch... and there’s plenty of downside. Every product represents a tradeoff between the opposing qualities of comfort and strength. And let us not forget effectiveness. Wax paper, for example, may be both comfortable and strong, but it will not be effective.

Too soft? You may be comfortable, but you may be growing a crop of dingleberries with every swipe, while at the same time being vulnerable to the Dreaded Poke-Through. On the other hand, too strong and harsh, and your Delicate Rosebud may pay a heavy price.

Our favorite brand seems to strike the perfect balance between these competing characteristics. So, you might well ask, why change?

Well, we’ve observed that what at first was seemingly a one-off phenomenon - the narrowing roll - has become an industry trend. Last trip we made to the Bunwad Shoppe, we saw that only one brand - the contemptible single-ply Scott’s - still retains its old 4½-inch width. All the others have shrunk to four inches. If this trend continues, in a few years we’ll be wiping ourselves with reels of Rectal Floss. Yeef.

Our mild resentment at this development led us to throw caution to the wind and try a test run of a different brand. We settled on Charmin Ultra Strong. My issue with Charmin in the past - aside from their former mascot, the execrable Mr. Whipple - is that it is well on the soft-and-comfy side of the spectrum. Sounds good, but unless you’re trying to start a ’berry farm, it’s not the way to go. “Ultra Strong” seemed to promise a different experience.

And it is, indeed, different.

Let me tell you, this stuff is tough. The Dreaded Poke-Through is not ever gonna be an issue with this tissue... unless you learned your wiping technique from wildcat oil drillers. Or in the rare event that a poke-through is desirable.

But what about comfort? you ask.

Surprisingly, it’s plenty comfortable. Not nearly like that 10-grit garnet paper they used to give us in grade school. It’s not Fluffy McFluffypants, but it’s workable, if you don’t mind the disconcerting sensation that you’re wiping yourself with a (soft) paper towel.

And better yet: No ’Berry Patch.

I’m not prepared, at this point, to commit to a wholesale conversion. Nevertheless, we’ve identified a product that, at the very least, may be used in the event of an emergency or in case of difficulty obtaining our Usual. (After a nuclear war, however, all bets are off and anything becomes fair game. Newsprint, broken bottles, oyster shells...)

The only extant question, I suppose, is whether you hang the roll so that the paper is dispensed from the top or from the bottom of the roll. I know the right answer, of course, as does SWMBO. But I will not be so uncivil as to mention it here, for entire empires have foundered as a result of disputes on matters of far less importance.

EAR-DOODIE

Have you ever probed your ear with a Q-Tip, only to withdraw it encased in a heinous wad of goop, as though your ear canal had taken a crap?

Yeah, me neither.

EXCREMENTRICITY: A 100-WORD STORY

Fossil fuel supplies were dwindling fast. Worse, they were located in remote places, places often ruled by tinpot dictators and corrupt kings. Clean, cheap nuclear power had scary disadvantages, like waste disposal. Wind and water power were hostage to geography and required costly, high-maintenance equipment.

The search for an inexpensive, inexhaustible supply of energy frustrated scientists for years, but it was just another challenge to be overcome by Cristobal “Colon” Carlinsky.

When Carlinsky discovered how to convert shit to electricity, he was hailed as a genius, becoming wealthy beyond measure. The world rejoiced.

Doodiecell: The Copro-Top Battery. Get one today!

TODAY’S PITH AND VINEGAR

BobG’s comment at this post got me thinking... about an idea for a Great New Reality Show.

Maroon twelve celebrity contestants on an inaccessible island. Give ’em plenty of fine food: steaks, lobster, the works. Gourmet stuff. Let ’em eat to their hearts’ content...

... and then give them a powerful laxative (Ex-Lax in the chocolate mousse, f’r instance) and a pack of Zig-Zags. Now, watch the fun begin.

It would be a real test of ingenuity.

And you, Esteemed Reader, have your own test of ingenuity: What would you call this show? Please share your best ideas in the comments.

PLYING THEIR TRADE

At first I thought the Bunwad-Merchants were pulling a Hershey Bar Scam on us.

The Hershey Bar Scam, for those who are not pruned-up enough to remember, is how the chocolate people dealt with fluctuating raw material costs. For many years, you could buy a Hershey milk chocolate bar for a mere five cents... but it wasn’t always the same size. In 1930, that nickel bar weighed two full ounces, but by 1968 it had shrunk to ¾ ounce. It’s simply a hidden price increase, and it works because people pay way more attention to the price of the package than they do to the amount they buy. But it’s the unit cost that really counts.

For a moment, I suspected that the Asswipe Boys were taking a page from the same book. Or pulling a sheet off the same roll, to customize the analogy.

Most of us are accustomed to using two-ply paper, except on boats and in cheap hotels, where single-ply is the norm. (Ecch. Ouch.) Two plies seem to provide the perfect balance between softness and durability: You want to get the job done with a minimum of irritation and chafing, while at the same time not generating a “bush full of berries” (so to speak).

Technological advance continues apace, however, and the World o’ Bunwad is no exception. Quilted Northern has introduced their “Ultra Plush” line, with three (count ’em) plies of tush-friendly paper. Hey, the razor-blade people are doing it... why not the Asswipers?

When I first heard about this Wonderful New Invention, I was skeptical. I’m not a fan of overly soft Tee-Pee, mainly because it tends to form those nasty dingleberries, the existence of which has now been officially acknowledged by the Charmin Bears:



(That’s right! Bears got dingleberries!)

But a couple of weeks ago, when the Missus and I were on a Bunwad-Hunt, we found a great big package of this Ultra Plush stuff and decided to give it a try, thanks to its being heavily discounted.

It was the Missus who first noticed the difference.

Never mind that the paper was, indeed, both softer and more prone to berrification. That was bad enough... but the clincher was the dimensions of the roll. The three-ply rolls are a half-inch narrower.

It’s not so much that the roll looks weird on a standard Tee-Pee Dispenser. It’s that I’m used to having a certain amount of papery real-estate in my hand when I commence to wiping. I like the roll to be at least as wide as my hand, for obvious reasons.

The package, of course, tells you how many sheets per roll you get, how thick they are, and the dimensions of each sheet, as well as the total area on the roll. But I suspect that a vanishingly small number of people actually look to see the dimensions of the sheets. The Quilted Northern Ultra Plush sheets are are 4 x 4 inches, compared to 4½ x 3½ inches for the traditional products. Narrower but longer.

So it’s not really a Hershey Bar Scam after all. The narrow sheets actually have 1.5% more area. Wheeee!

But I still prefer the traditional Roll Dimensions. I mean, let’s pull an extrapolatio ad absurdum, shall we? If this trend continues, in a few years we’ll see twenty-ply bunwad with individual sheets measuring ½ x 36 inches. They’ll be really soft, but you’ll have to use ’em like Rectal Floss. Oy.

POKER LESSON

OK, let’s review those poker hands, shall we?

One pair beats high card.

Two pairs beat one pair.

Trips beat two pairs.

A straight beats trips.

A flush beats a straight.

A flush’ll also beat a turd... except here in the Land of the Low Flow Toilet.

[Don’t forget to wash that hand when you’re done.]

GRAPES OF WRATH

I have a friend who never smiles.
His name is Loathsome Lloyd.
He suffers from his Massive Piles -
The dreaded Hemorrhoid.

The Grapes that grow inside his butt
Can drive him quite insane.
It’s quite enough to make him nuts
The itching and the pain.

His scratching brings him no relief:
His agony, it lingers.
It steals upon him like a thief,
And gives him stinky fingers.

He’d sell his soul to find a cure,
A balm to soothe his anus.
An anesthetic, sweet and pure,
To take away his painus.

But meanwhile, Lloyd lives with his Piles.
They’re “Grapes of Wrath,” indeed.
You know now why he never smiles
And scratches ’til he bleeds.

AN OBSERVATION, MOST LIKELY UNWELCOME

If there’s one thing I really dread
It’s pinching back a Turtle-Head.
And even worse is when my poop
Devolveth unto Turtle-Soup.

HOSED

“Did everything come out all right?”
“Oh, yeah. Everything came out, all right.”

This morning, I underwent my little once-every-five-year procedure, and I am pleased to report that I passed with flying cacas colors.

Any medical work that involves (1) heavy sedation, and (2) no actual cutting, is A-OK in my book. Heavy sedation ensures that you have no idea what they’re sticking and where...and just how far up. The advance preparation is the only unpleasant part, and even that was much more tolerable than it was the last time I did this. No vile-tasting concoctions. Just a handful of Dulcolax tablets, and an eight-ounce bottle of Miralax powder dissolved in a half-gallon of Gatorade, gulped down one glass at a time. [Useful tip from my friend Gary: Prepare the Miralax solution one glass at a time; otherwise, the stuff thickens as it stands, becoming unpalatably viscous.]

It’s amazing how a few easily-obtainable OTC pharmaceuticals can help abort a monster Aubrey/Maturin dinner-spawned Food-Baby in the space of a single day.

Perhaps the most enjoyable (if I may use the word) part of the experience was in the waiting room, where an elderly woman and her brother-in-law waited as her (intellectually disabled) middle-aged son was recovering from his sedation. In a place where most people speak in hushed tones, they carried on an amazing conversation in normal voices:

“He has a... what is that? A fissure? A fistula?”

“They gave me a prescription for some medicine I have to put in the anus. What is that? Is that the hole? Why don’t they just say ‘the hole’?”

Now, that’s entertainment.

Best yet: I get to do it again in five years. <IRONY>Oh, boy - I can’t wait.</IRONY>

[I’d put up a couple of pictures, but the Missus has threatened to strangle me with my own colon if I do. Be thankful.]

THE PROCEDURE: A 100-WORD STORY

It’s almost time for my procedure.

Once you get to be my age, it’s something you gotta do. Every five years, like clockwork.

I hate it. Loathe it. So demeaning.

The prep? Nasty, sure, but it’s no big deal. You drink the goop, you shit all day. No fun, but I can deal with it. Hell, I did deal with it. Yesterday.

But this is today. Here comes the doctor, now, with his polka-dotted lab coat, his size 26 shoes, his painted face, his red rubber nose... and that six-foot length of fiber-optic hose.

Gawd, I hate getting a Clownoscopy.

GIVING BIRTH

Gawd.

Now I have a vague idea of how it feels to be pregnant. Over this past week, I’ve been growing a serious Food-Baby...and soon it will be time to give birth.

I’'m hoping for an eight-pounder, at least.

DOING THE NAMASTE, orASSUME THE POSITION

I am probably the last person on Earth that you’d expect to be taking a class in yoga...but, then again, I am full of surprises.

I blame the Missus, who takes yoga classes after school...and I blame my friend Barry, who has been taking morning classes once or twice a week. The combined Moral Suasion of both of them was too strong to resist.

Yoga is, simply, a school of discipline for the mind and body. Ask me for a better definition, and I can’t help you. All that Sanskrit makes me want to pound nails into my skull, and you’re not allowed to do that until you have mastered the eight chakras of Kundalini Kackabini.

Basically, the class is an hour-long period in which I listen to brain-numbing Relaxation Music (thank Gawd it doesn’t relax my sphincters!) and, following the dictates of the instructor, contort my body into a series of increasingly painful postures while looking at the tight buns and toned musculature of my female classmates.

I’m really not sure what the ultimate objective is. I think that when you get fairly good at this stuff, you can lick your own nutsack (Q: Why do dogs lick their own balls? A: Because they can.)...and if you get really good, you can climb into your own asshole.

I don’t plan to get that good. But at least it gets me out of the house.

Besides, my idea of nirvana is Taking a Good, Long, Crap (an idea I share with at least one other Online Journalist). If one were to use Yogic Discipline in the process, could you call that process “Groga”? And would the resulting Steaming Output be a “Yogan”?

TRANSCENDENTAL DEFECATION

If this guy keeps writing in this vein, we’ll have to start calling him “El Crapitan.”

Seriously, dude (that word may be pronounced “dood” or “doody” at your discretion) - you seem to be making a bid for the Golden Plunger, that fine award once bestowed by Yours Truly on the late, great Rob Smith. Who’s your competition these days? Og? Velociman?

Now, if you will kindly excuse me, I think I will go meditate.

Ommmmmmmmmmmmm (ungggghh) mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...