BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

It’s true.

Food goes in, goes through a series of bio-chemical processes that break it down into nutrients our body can use, then the waste material shoots out the other end. Sometimes at a pretty good clip, especially if fermentable fiber was in your diet.

Now, I could go into all of the technical stuff, such as Ptyalin – the enzyme in saliva that converts starches to sugar. Peristalsis – the muscular contractions that enable you to swallow, as well as move the Chyme along until it becomes full blown poop. Pyloric sphincters… and on, and on. But, this isn’t an anatomy lesson, nor is it a biology class.

You see, the thing about poop is that whenever mentioned around my daughter, she immediately goes into the screwy faced “ewwwwww” mode, and runs from the room. Why? Well, I guess because poop is kinda gross. And, she’s a girl. Not being sexist here, just stating an observation. Boys tend more toward “potty humor” than girls. It’s a societal fact.

So, by now I suppose you are wondering why I am even talking about poop. I mean, after all, it’s not like Christmas is all that close just yet. If you don’t get that reference, just check out Southpark and it’ll make more sense.

No, the thing here is that poop, as a general rule, isn’t something one talks about in polite company. Sort of… I say “sort of” because poop suddenly becomes a viable topic of conversation – be it at the bar, dinner table, watercooler, what have you, when at least one of three criteria are met.

1. You are a child.
2. You have a child.
3. You are over 40.

Why?

Well, let’s break it down.

First, when you’re a kid, poop happens. Generally in your pants. Therefore, folks out to make a quick buck have gone to great lengths to make animated shows and silly songs about pooping. “She’s/He’s A Super Dooper Pooper”… Elmo does Potty Training… It goes on and on. So, for kids, poop is a perfectly acceptable subject not only for conversation, but for songs and cartoons as well.

But at some point poop becomes a “dirty little secret.” It’s as if once you have learned where to deposit the poop and all of the “paperwork” involved with making said deposit, “The Poo” is now “Taboo.”

This poop moratorium lasts for several years – either until you have a kid, or if you skip that joy, until you turn approximately 40.

Now, when you have a kid, what you have basically done is created for yourself an eating and pooping machine. That’s pretty much all they do for the first year or two. Eat, poop, eat, poop. When they start walking and talking, then they not only eat and poop, they make art with it and tell you about it. You become jaded to the concept of poop. It’s a normal thing. The only time it isn’t is when something changes about the poop. But, that doesn’t stop you from talking about it. Not at all. In fact, it pretty much spurs conversation. There you are, changing a diaper, and voila! You turn your head one way, then the other, giving it a good inspection. Open the shade for more light. Inspect it some more. Then, you call out to your wife:

“Honey! C’mere…”

“Why?”

“You gotta see this poop.”

“Why?”

“It’s shaped like Justin Bieber’s head. You gotta see it.”

“Hold on while I get the camera.”

See what I mean? Shapes, sizes, colors, quantities.  Poop just becomes a part of normal conversation. Next thing you know, you’re telling everyone at work about the Justin Bieber Shaped Poop, or the industrial adhesive quality of the last diaper you changed, and you aren’t fazed in the least. Other parents are right there on the same page with you. Hell, they even want to see the pictures of the poop head. But, be warned, some of your younger co-workers  who are childless may be put off by this, especially if the subject comes up in the lunch room.

Our third option comes about as we age. Poop – or more accurately, Pooping, becomes an important part of your day. If you don’t offload that pastrami sandwich and half a package of Oreos, then you just don’t feel quite right. And, of course, since your metabolism is changing, the doctor starts offering up advice.

“Doc, I haven’t pooped in two weeks.”

“How much fiber do you have in your diet?”

“Fiber… Well… I accidentally bit a piece off a Popsicle stick last month and swallowed it. Does that count?”

“Not enough. Go to the feed store, get yourself a bale of hay. Eat 5 large helpings a day for three days straight, drink 47 gallons of water, and then lock yourself in the bathroom with a clothespin and a copy of People magazine.”

“I don’t like People magazine. Can I take a Playboy instead?”

“No. This isn’t a recreational visit.”

Then, just to take things a step further, as if we really need to do so – when you hit 50 another MD hands you a bottle of Drano for your intestines, then wants to stick a camera up your wazoo… Yeah, the greeting card companies have actually come up with a “Congratulations on your Colonoscopy” card. Go figure. So, if you think poop was okay to talk about at 40, then 50 should be a breeze because it’s definitely all about the poop when you hit the half-century mark.

And, speaking of Intestine Drano – Even the OTC drug companies are all over this. Just for fun they bombard you with it daily. There are more products out there designed to expel the poop from your body than there are to stop it from leaving. (Whether or not that statistic is really true, I have no idea. I just made it up. But then, this is a satire blog…)

Seriously though, check the aisle at your local Pharmacy. Plenty of poop aids. You can usually find them near the 57 brands of TP and sphincter wipes.

So, there you have it. Everybody poops. TV personalities, porn stars, the guy at the 7-11, authors, bloggers, doctors, lawyers, cobblers, butchers, bakers and candle stick makers. Everybody. Although, I have to admit, I’m not so sure about politicians and/or Justin Bieber, but that’s a different blog.

The thing is, it’s just one of those facts of life. Therefore, even if you don’t have a kid and aren’t over 40, go ahead and make it a fun topic of conversation without any stigma. It’s only poop. Embrace it.

Just don’t get any of it on me…

More to come…

Murv

Continued from: Of Redheads And High Heels…

As we established in our previous episode, it all started with a blood-curdling shriek. Also as noted, it was an “I’m going to kill you with my bare hands” sort of shriek, which just so happens to be one of those that the redhead can do at the drop of a hat. Moreover, it causes male hearts anywhere within a 5 mile radius to fibrillate momentarily, followed by the family jewels making a hasty retreat indoors, so to speak.

And, as we know, such a scream from The Evil One usually precedes me being screwed – and not in the good way. I mean screwed like the guy in the cartoon… Although, she has yet to use an actual ginormous screw to effect said screwing. I expect once she sees this blog, however, she will find someplace to order one. Damn… I hate when I give her ideas…

Oh well, moving right along.

As it turns out, this time neither my name, nor any of the monikers the undisputed Queen of Evil uses for me (lackey, doormat, hey you, what’syername, et. al), had been uttered. Nope… This was just a plain old scare the pee right outta ya’ shriek straight from the bowels of Hades. This seemed to indicate that maybe, just maybe, it was NOT me who was the target of her wrath this time. Unusual, yes, but hey, it happens once in a blue moon…

Oh, and before I forget, we also established Rule #2 ½ – Don’t mess with EKay’s shoes… I think that warrants a quick reminder because it has enormous bearing on the story…

And, therefore, back to that bone-chilling screech…

So, there we were (and still are) with a plethora of E K shoes hither and yon. In the closet(s), on shoe racks, under the bed, on the stairs, in boxes… You name it. And, back then, not only did we have shoes, we also had a couple of roommates.

We’ll call them Benjamin and Quigley, mostly because those were their names.

And, before you ask, no, Ben and Quigs were NOT a couple of guys E K kept chained up in the basement for recreational torture whenever I couldn’t take any more and simply passed out from the intense agony.  Those guys were named Bob and Bob, and she picked them up from… Well,  that’s a different story so we won’t get into that…

Nope, Ben and Quigs were our English Setter and Australian Cattle Dog, respectively (both of whom have since gone to the great kennel in the sky, but still live on in the pages of the RGI novels.)

I think maybe you can now see where this is going.

And so, I was in the kitchen preparing dinner when the front door opened, the click-clack of Evil’s shoes tapped against our hardwood floor, followed immediately by the horrific scream.  Not knowing what the problem could be, but realizing that if I didn’t respond – even though my name had not been called – there would be hell to pay, I shot out of the kitchen and into the dining room. And, that’s when I saw it… The horribly masticated, chewed up, slobbered upon, ripped to shreds, size 7 shoe.

Ben and the Quigster were already in motion. Unfortunately, they were more like a couple of the Keystone Cops as opposed to a well-practiced football team, or anything else for that matter. The English Setter leaped up, only to have the Aussie run under his legs and trip him. He regained his footing, but once again they bounced off one another as they sought escape, yelping all the way – and at this point all that had happened was the shriek.

E K, being practiced in the art of unconventional available weaponry, as we are well aware from all of her high level NSA training (See: Kay… E Kay…) immediately fell back on instinct. Kicking one foot up behind her, she instantly had a lethal weapon in hand and at the ready.

Both canines  stopped dead in their tracks and stared at the psychotic redhead. In a remarkable and wholly unbelievable moment of spontaneous anthropomorphization, their eyes widened, and my hand to God / Goddess / Whatever deity works for you, I swear that both of them yelled, “OH SH*T!”

Once again, they bounced off one another as they scrambled across the floor in an attempt to escape. E K jumped in front of the Aussie, who immediately began backpedaling. Then, like some kind of gymnast on crack, my wife ran up the wall, across the ceiling, and landed feet first on the sofa, right in front of the English Setter who was attempting to take a shortcut by way of the furniture.

Both of the dogs scampered toward the stairs, but it was no good. The redhead, like some kind of Matrix-Samurai-Ninja who was wielding the sacred stiletto heel, flew from the couch, right over the top of the coffee table, and landed immediately behind them. The pair shot up the stairs, yelping like they’d been beaten by someone with a 2X4, even though she hadn’t even touched them. E K was, of course, mere fractions of an inch behind them, screaming something barely intelligible at the top of her lungs. To this day I am convinced that it was some ancient hell spawn cursing, all of which ended in “MY SHOOOOOZZZ!”

I stood in the dining room, dumbfounded as I listened to the trio circle the  upper half-story at least six times before shooting back down the stairs at blinding speed. I stared on in horror as they came barreling straight for me, both Ben and Quigley still in an athropomorphized state as they yelled, “DOOD! HELP! SHE’S GONNA KILL US!”

At the last minute, just as my heart was lodging itself in my throat, they took a quick right and shot down the hallway. I tried to warn them, but they weren’t thinking clearly and my heart was blocking my vocal chords. You see, the bedroom door was closed, and the hallway dead ended in the bathroom.

The simultaneous scampering of dog paws came to a sudden halt, and a split second later the clickety-clack of a single high heel running at 42,000 RPM’s fell silent. I heard another stream of hell spawn cursing, once again ending with MY SHOOOOOOZZZZZZ!

And then, all was quiet.

That’s when I started to get concerned. I slowly crept around the corner and made my way down the hall to the bathroom. There stood the redhead in her business attire, hair puffed out from her head like a cat with an arched back, one shoe on, and the other held high over her head in the death strike position.

The dogs, having reached the end of the line, were rolled over on their backs, paws in the air, tongues hanging out, and fear in their eyes. I looked at them, and they looked at me. Then they looked up at the redhead with the killer shoe. They looked back at me. I looked at them, then I looked at the redhead with the killer shoe. They looked back to the redhead…

And, then Quigley proceeded to pee all over himself.

In the end, E K never touched the canines. She did, however, make me clean up the dog pee and then proceeded to beat me with the shoe. Something about her shoes being named Husbandstomper, and once the stiletto was unsheathed, it had to draw the blood of a man before it could be put back into its box.

Personally, I think maybe she was reading too many of Michael Moorcock’s Elric Novels*…

More to come…

Murv

* The character in the novels, Elric, carried a cursed sword named Stormbringer. Whenever unsheathed, it could not be re-sheathed until it had drawn blood.