Feeling Flushed

Little brown canoes.

Let me explain.

I was over at Spazoid’s blog a while back, checking stuff out.

When I say “checking stuff out” I mean “not working” and “crushing my employer’s Return on Investment” in regards to their hiring of me.

Stock Market crash?

My fault.

The Great Depression?

Me.

Subprime Mortgage Crisis?

Me.

Jessica Alba’s pregnancy?

I wish.

Regardless, at the time Spaz was writing about “Laws of the Bathroom .”

Now, 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.

Spaz DID include that law as well but he neglected one very important bathroom law…

…of which I’ll expand here using one of my very own recent experiences.

I hate having bathroom ‘experiences.’

I’m going to start wearing Depends Undergarments so this doesn’t happen any more.

Coworker: “Hey…what’s that smell?”

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.“

(I move to the next stall)

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

He casually strides into the clog-stall.

Loafers: “HOLY MOTHER OF CHRIST!!“

Sadly, 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 Rachael Ray.

I hope this happens to her A LOT.

I hear the inevitable flush.

*FLOOOOOSH*

Of course, the giant animated shit refuses to flush…

…and immediately starts overflowing INTO MY STALL.

Me: “AAARRRRGGGHHH!!!”

For the next 15 seconds, I frantically try to expel the 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 looks up at him.

Calmly, he 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 turds.

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.

The Ball Shedder

Dear Dickwad,

No, I do not know you’re name.

Nor do I know who you are.

But I know WHAT you are.

You’re a stupid fuckshit.

Why do I know this?

Because every time I go into the men’s room to take a shit, 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 fucking 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 penis, 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 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 ‘Jew holiday candle thingy’ 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 over the fucking toilet without putting the seat up.

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 fuckshit pube-guy’s mother.

She’s a dirty…dirty mom.

(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

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?

midgetmanofsteel: 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: going to 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

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.

Cracker Barrel and the Explosive Diarrhea

My son is awesome.

The wife and I took the kids to “Cracker Barrel” for breakfast the other morning.

Cracker Barrel ad:

“Come in for breakfast. No teeth? No problem.”

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.

Suddenly, the bathroom door burst open and a guy – in obvious 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.

http://www.midgetmanofsteel.com