We all know I love poop.
Quick side note for all the smartasses out there: did you just say, “well, actually, I didn’t know that, so you’re wrong.”? Did you? Because I didn’t say, “we all knew I love poop,” I said “we all know I love poop,” which, after having read that sentence, we all DO. So shut your damn pretty mouth.
Heretofore my accounts of poop stories have been the only worthwhile things I’ve written (I say heretofore because this post isn’t going to be worthwhile, and also because I think that word makes me sound smart). I’m fascinated by poop.
So naturally, when Tiff posted about this stuff yesterday, I was immediately engrossed (best usage of that word ever). [The link is not for the faint-of-heart. Basically it’s a product that makes you shit a ton and supposedly cleans out the poop-chute.]
The thought of rectal pollution got to me though, because really, if you have fifteen pounds of poo-gradually-ossifying-into-cancer wedged in your colon, you’ve got to want to shit it out, right? I mean, even the thought that one of those monsters might be lurking around the next bend of my large intestine had me breaking out in cold sweat.
At the same time, I knew this company was an exaggerated, charge-you-out-the-wazoo (ha), one-step-short-of-a-pyramid-scheme bunch of shlepps. I’ve asked my dad before if there really might be a couple stone (ha) of turd in the lower level of your GI and he said of course not. Oh yeah, I should mention my dad’s a doctor – otherwise it sounds like I’m four years old (and my dad can beat up your dad).
So at first, I thought I’d just let it go. But I couldn’t. Last night in bed, I tossed and turned. I probed my abdomen gently, wondering, fearing the worst: that I was basically the star of Aliens 4: It Comes Out Your Ass.
I needed my own version of the ass-blaster medicine. So this morning, in a minor panic, I broke into my mother’s All-Bran. I had dashed out a bowl of the mouse-turd shaped cereal and crunched a handful down before I saw that we had no milk. No milk for the cereal, real effing great.
Did that stop me? Hell no. I poured warmish water over the gravelly mix and started gamely spooning. Despite the fact that All-Bran and water is fucking disgusting, I got into a zone. I ploughed through that damn cereal like it was going to save me from cancer, which it might have been. Next thing I knew, I had eaten six bowls. Six fucking bowls of All-Bran!
This was bad. This was bad, I just knew it. And then I heard the loud, unmistakable creaking groan of an old sailing ship’s mast tilting in the wind. Or that’s what I thought. Then I realized the sound was actually my own bowel growl, registering at about 80 decibels. The ground was shaking a little bit, a light bulb shattered in the sconce, and beads of sweat sprang out on my forehead. I bolted for the bathroom.
Poop and I have been at it all day. Three times I’ve hit up the growler, and three times emptied the tanks, leaving a deposit the size of a swaddling papoose. It’s inexplicable. I can’t imagine how that much poop fit inside me. It’s like I just had triplets.
But you know what? I’m enjoying it. I’m really kinda digging the whole experience. It’s not every day you have the opportunity to poop the equivalent weight of an ottoman soaked in water.
And two seconds ago, someone walked behind my desk and saw the first paragraph declaring “We all know I love poop.” So now that everyone involved has far more information than they ever could have wanted, I’d better go. As a matter of fact, there’s another reason too. Excuse me.