Fiery bowels
The past month or two has been really unusual bowel-wise. I have, most of my life, been an early morning shitter. wake up take a piss, brush my teeth, breakfast reading the paper, and then pinch a loaf, ass kabob, a big ol texan, a brown banana, a booty cake, drop a bomb, doody time, making tootsie rolls, launch a steamer, bustin’ a dookie, making stinkies, #2 to do, Mr. Hanky, whatever you want to call it. ….now, I’m not talking a code brown here (aka the hershey squirts) , this is my scheduled pot drop.
Lately though, it’s been multiple times per day, but of a lessor quantity. (if it was the same quantity I think I’d shrink away to nothing pretty quickly) But I was talking about this with my wife. um yeah, that’s a fun conversation. And an incident of my childhood came to mind.
my favorite shit
Why are kids so fascinated with shit? I mean really. Even the word shit can bring peels of giggles and laughter to children. It’s like ‘the dirty word’ and well it should be. Shit literally is dirtier than any other curse word. Dirtier than piss, bitch, damn, fuck or anything else. Literally it’s dirty.
So I, for some reason, decided that I had to take a shit immediately and I was in the basement of my old house – the one I grew up in – and I found a paper sack and enlisted my younger brother’s help. He held it open and I crapped in it. Yes, I dropped a brown torpedo in a brown paper sack.
But as a kid I didn’t think it through. I had nothing to wipe with, so I ended up going upstairs anyway to wipe. As I am thinking about it, taking a crap is a tough thing, if you are holding in the piss. I mean, go ahead, next time you go to drop a brownie in the bowl, try not to pee. Not so easy now, is it?
Back to the thrilling story. I get done wiping and flushing, but now what do I do with the bag of shit? I mean my mother was like a hawk with the trash. I am not kidding. One time I crapped my tighty whities and threw them out in the trash can in the garage and she found them and made me scrub them out with a brush in the toilet. C’mon Ma, we could afford to junk one cruddy crusty pair of drawers. It’s not like we were dirt poor.
And why was she fishing around in the garbage can in the garage anyway? And how the hell did I manage to get Gerald to hold that brown bag as I took a dump? Damn, what a screwy childhood.
