Everybody Poops

1) The Perfect Poop: You have all the time in the world. There is nothing stopping you from taking as long as you like. In fact, you just might read several chapters in your book because you rather like the cool toilet seat cradling your buttocks. Very little effort is required, aside from the occasional sigh of gratitude for this lovely experience.

2) The Hasty: You have no time. You're already late for work. There is no way you're going to shit your pants in the car (again), so you've got to get this thing done. Dropping trow, your end lurches for the toilet bowl, only to be met with stubborn intestinal resistance. What the hell? You're supposed to be Niagra Falls back there, but nothing? Nothing?? OK, relax. You just have to relax. Relaxing makes everybody poop. Ahhhh. You're so relaxed. You're middle name is Relaxington. Nobody will care if you're late for the meeting. OH CRAP, THE MEETING!! No, relax remember? You're fine! It'll be fine. Ok, ok, here it comes! Heeeere we go now. It's... almost.... [plink, plink]. That's IT?! Where's the rest? THAT'S what you're late for?? AHHHHHHH!!

3) The Pasty: You sit down, pull out your People magazine for some light reading, and begin. An unpleasant gurgle is soon followed by the grotesque sensation of aerated cake batter working its way out of you. It smells. It smells really bad. You try to seal the bowl with more thigh skin, but can't quite cut off the stench. You would breath through your mouth, except for the nauseating thought of poop particles filling your throat. When you're finally done, you pull off several squares of toilet paper and quiver thinking about what awaits in the darkness. Sure enough, you're going to need more TP. Then more. Half the roll and several flushes pass, and you're still only barely clean. Deciding that a slightly unclean rear is better than a bloody scab, you pull up your pants in defeat.

4) The Troublemaker: You go. And go. And go and go and go. Nothing is coming out anymore, but for some reason, you're not done. You've been there for 40 minutes. You've ruptured a blood vessel in your eye. Still not done. It's up there, taunting you. Hiding far away, tucked deep within, causing you to feel bloated and in need of release, but it won't budge. It's the troublemaker, and it's not coming down anytime soon.

5) The Ninja: Hmmmm. Why hasn't anything happened? You've been there for five minutes. Well, it'll happen soon enough, you just have to sit there. You tap your fingers in anticipation, bored since you forgot something to entertain you. A little more time passes. You're growing impatient. Geez, what's the deal? Lifting a thigh to check, there's gotta be at least a.... WOAH. Where did that come from? Were you even there? When did it happen? You pause to recount the past several minutes and know that 1) You never left and 2) What's left is distinctly yours. Enter the Ninja.

6) The Loudmouth: You're at work and it's time for an afternoon visit to the bathroom. You look forward to a nice afternoon bathroom break, if nothing else but to have an excuse to leave that claustrophobic cube for a bit. Several other people have the same idea, and you're not alone. You nod to a few of them and even chat with Steve from Accounting in the hallway. You find an open stall and take a seat. You suddenly realize what's coming, but it's too late to stop now. "WHY HELLLLLOOOO THERE!! I'M YOUR BUTT! FANCY A CHAT? A LOVELY CHAT?? LET'S HAVE A CHAT! I SHALL SEND YOUR EXCREMENT INTO THIS POOL. BELLY FLOPS FOR EVERYONE, YES? YES! OH MY, THE WATER IS LOVELY TODAY! AREN'T YOU JEALOUS OF YOUR EXCREMENT? THEY LOOK TO BE HAVING A LOVELY REUNION DOWN THERE! A JOYOUS REUNION OF POOPERY!!" You try to tell yourself that you're a grownup, and so are your coworkers. Everyone has, from time to time, a bathroom experience that's a bit louder than usual, but surely they'd understand, right? You can count on their sense of decency and the human experience and know that they'll understand. No. Of course they won't. You know they won't. They're going to laugh at you behind your back, and there's nothing you can do about it. You'll probably receive a Christmas card this year signed by everyone that reads, "Merry POOPmas".

7) The Firestorm: Extra jalapenos on your nachos. Too much sriracha sauce in your curry. Habanero-infused burger with pepper jack cheese. Whatever it was, it's too late to go back now. You know what's coming, and you've made the appropriate arrangements. Your will and last testament are secure. You've written your loved ones. When the inevitable knock comes, you step timidly into the bathroom. Another knock; a bit louder this time. A bead of sweat forms on your temple and slides down your cheek. No more delaying. No more excuses. You're either going to emerge scarred and close to death, or you won't emerge at all. You bear down and convince yourself that it will be a quick one. "I'll get this done in less than two minutes!," you say nervously, but you know the truth. Time and space have no meaning in hell, and that's where you're about to be. Delirious with pain, your body lurches, saliva drips from the corners of your mouth, and you know, you KNOW, that your insides are melting into the bowl. By this point, you may not even have insides left; just a gaping cavity of woeful regret. Hallucinations and fits of rage set in. You tear at the walls and beat yourself in the head with a towel bar; anything to distract from your burning insides. When you're done, you pick up what's left of your entrails, which sizzle and hiss in your frail hands. You may still be alive, but you'll never be the same.

8) The Tsunami (a.k.a. The Doubting Thomas): You sit and await what you think will be an easy ride. You stare off into the distance and remember that bouquet of flowers you passed at the market but didn't pick up. You wonder if cherry tomatoes would go well with... suddenly you're interrupted. The tide washed out too quickly. You grip the seat and press your thighs hard. The deluge practically blows you off your seat. A few seconds of rest before the second wave. Then the third, fourth, and fifth. You didn't even see it coming. You had exerted absolutely zero effort, yet here you sit, filling the bowl at breakneck speed. The waves subside, and you flush. Happy to be finished, you reach for the toilet paper. Then, a shiver. And another. Are you done? You didn't feel it the first time, so how can you be sure? You decide that you've not yet reached the end and place your hand back on your lap. You squeeze, but nothing. You push, but nothing. Apprehensive, you again reach for the TP... and.... nothing. Nothing! You're done. You pull up your skivvies, zip your pants, and take a step. A shiver. A chance that... maybe? No, surely not. You're done. You're sure of it!... Right?

9) The Carpet Bomb: Accuracy is of little concern, only forceful devastation. You don't remember loading yourself with gunpowder, but apparently you did. BOOM! BOOM BOOM!!!! BA-BOOOOOM!!! You cringe at each blast, cowering a little closer to the ground. You end up with more water on your legs than in the bowl.

10) The Stubborn Debutante: What should have been a joyous celebration has turned sour. You've been waiting for the debutante to descend the staircase, to see her in her full glory, resplendent; a woman entering the world. Instead, you hear grumbling and crying upstairs. A shoe is thrown from the bedroom and slaps the adjacent wall. Mother and father have tried everything, to no avail. You even toyed with the idea of sticking your head in there to give her a piece of your mind, but quickly recoil at the thought. It's better to wait than to get a face full of angry debutante. It's a good thing you're not in a hurry, because this is going to be one loooong party.

Sarah Palin

For those of you who have been living under miles of earth, alone in a dark, silent cave, subsisting on a diet of misery and your own hair, you won't know the putrescence of which I speak. For everyone else, here's a perky reminder:

(Don't stare directly into its eyes)















Sarah Palin is a creature that congealed in Alaska from bits of a regurgitated animal carcass, bullet shells, Newt Gingrich's taint sweat, and pure, unfiltered narcissism. I don't fault Alaska for its creation, though I do fault them for not having dealt with this nuisance long before now. "She" is currently my most hated political figure. Her near constant verbal discharges are a visceral reminder of just how stupid some Americans can be given the right factors.

In Sarah's case, the factor was one Senator John McCain. Before him, she was the governor of Alaska. Until McCain used his rotting talon to pluck Palin from total obscurity, if you were to ask the average American to point out Alaska on a map, they would most likely tilt their head to one side, squint their eyes, and point to their crotch. They wouldn't be far off. Look, it's not that I have anything against Alaska. If I enjoyed the sports of hockey, snowmobiling, and ballfreezing, I would visit. Consider the combined factors that our dear Mrs. Palin developed there, that it's totally dark from November 18th to January 24th, and it rarely gets above 60 degrees. In my research, this evidence provides irrefutable proof that at least six gates to Hell are actively open and scattered across Alaska's vast, inspiring (I've heard), beautiful (I'm told), breathtaking (no seriously, the demons will steal your breath) landscape.

Now, you might be saying aloud to your monitor, "Oh gee, you just hate conservatives and the conservative movement! Sarah Palin happens to be at the forefront of this, so she's an easy target!" I'll give you that she's an easy target, but the fact that she's a conservative has nothing to do with it. There are plenty of conservatives with whom I disagree, but with whom I can have a civil, reasoned conversation. Sarah Palin is not one of them. Palin may anchor her rhetoric in political dialogue, but the ground is loose and her ship is adrift. No, the problem with Sarah isn't right v. left or conservative v. liberal. She is, simply, an unhinged fame whore. One that must be dealt with. It doesn't matter what she says now. She will use the conservative argument because it's convenient, simple and there are a lot of people in our fair nation that love red meat.

The thing I can stand least about Palin isn't her political message. It's not her "traditional Ahmurrican values" bullshit. It is, in fact, that she's a huge pussy. Under the general category of pussy, you have those who are simply afraid of everything, and those who talk a big game but couldn't fight their way out of a Neiman Marcus. Our lovely Sarah falls squarely into the latter. When I was first learning about her (like the rest of our nation), I didn't know what to think. She was obnoxious, rude, snarky, and everything else a campaigning politician should be, but there was something extra, something hidden, something that I knew, given enough time, would reveal itself. And then it did. For sport, or what she calls sport, Sarah Palin shoots wolves from helicopters. She rents a helicopter, gets her rifle, and flies about the skies fixing her hair, applying her makeup, and zeroing in on a lone, starving wolf. If there is a better definition of pussy, I would like to know what it is.

A lot of people can fire guns. Firing a gun doesn't make you tough. It doesn't make you terrifying. To me, all it signifies is that you're a pussy who can't scrap. You might "win" the fight, but you're still a pussy. You'll get to heaven and be all, "I killed FIFTEEN DEMONS, lord! You be praised!," and god will regard you with a sour expression and scoff, "Yeah, with a gun. Pussy. Have fun in Hell." Sometimes I have a dream and wake up with saliva dripping from the corners of my mouth in lustful anticipation. I'm excited, the sheets are wet, and my mind is racing. This dream is Sarah Palin hunting wolves on the ground, with a knife, in the Alaskan winter on the, what's it called... tundra. She has her provisions: tent, food, makeup, hairspray, etc., but no guns. I want to be there, to see the expression on her face as she closes in on an alpha male. I want to see the alpha keep her attention as the pack circles around and boxes her in, trapping The Palin from escape. I don't want to see the grisly end, just for the camera to pan away upon a gorgeous Alaskan sunrise. The dawn of a new day for America. An America without Sarah Fucking Palin.