Your leaking thatched hut during the restoration of a pre-Enlightenment state.

 

Hello, my name is Judas Gutenberg and this is my blaag (pronounced as you would the vomit noise "hyroop-bleuach").

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   good story about poo
Saturday, May 14 2005
I took the dogs to Fording Place this morning to gather sand for the new segment of stone walkway I began building yesterday. The water in Esopus Creek was still muddy from the floods that passed through well over a month ago, but due to a recent drought it was low enough to easily wade across. On the other side I found impressive banks of perfectly-sorted sand, the kind ideal for laying stone or brick walkways. I really wish I'd known about it back when I was gathering sand for my walkway; the stuff I'd ended up using was decidedly inferior. Today, though, I would have actually preferred dirtier sand, the kind that grass might happily grow in. I needed it for fill between rock on a pathway that would be level with the lawn on either side of it. If grass were to grow in it, so much the better. I could just mow right over it.
Speaking of mowing, today I mowed the grass for the first time this season. It was long but fairly succulent and easy on the blade (which, after many encounters with rocks, dog toys, sticks, and bones, is very dented, dulled, and warped). It only took me about twenty minutes to do all the mowing that needed doing, which amounts to about an eighth of an acre.

This evening we attended a little birthday barbecue for Mr. Tillson at the residence he shares with his lovely wife Ms. Tillson in the village of, well, Tillson. We played some croquet, ate your usual assortment of barbecued food items (meat and otherwise), and then enjoyed a birthday cake that Gretchen had prepared during a multi-hour "Timeless Desserts" class she attended at the Culinary Institute of America (CIA) earlier today.
As we sat around the barbecue grill talking about various things, the subject of Tivo came up. Gretchen and I have been watching Tivo-enhanced television for months now, and though we appreciate the absence of advertising in our lives, we've realized that without advertising we have become isolated. We don't know what cars and beers Abercrombie and Fitch-wearing college students are buying these days, or whether they're even still wearing Abercrombie and Fitch. And we couldn't tell you which laundry detergent has the ability to power through tough grass stains. You don't realize how important advertising is as a component of culture until it is removed from your life. Obviously, we're still exposed to advertising in the form of web banners and thick wads of extra pages in the New Yorker, but it's a lot easier to tune that stuff out that it was to ignore television advertising. By the way, both Gretchen and I had been thinking this independently, but during tonight's barbecue was the first time that we'd actually talked about it.
Later, in the house, some of the barbecue's guests told various stories about poo, that fragrant brownish substance excreted from everyone's anus on a daily basis. The best of the stories (which supposedly happened to the friend of the storyteller) went as follows:

An Icelandic gentleman is in an Amsterdam club and is intent on hooking up with a woman - though he has no one in particular in mind. Out on the dance floor the music is going punchis punchis punchis punchis and this hot chick starts dancing with him. He's thrilled and excited, and eventually they go together to the bar and have drinks. At about that time he feels a feeling down at the dark end of his gastrointestinal tract alerting him that maybe he should go stink up a bathroom pretty soon. But he was damned if he was going to leave this girl for a moment. If he were to go to the bathroom and take a dump, she might be gone with someone else by the time he got back. So he ordered his bowels to stand down and await the "all clear."
The hot chick is drinking her drink and being really super hot and our hero is finding it surprisingly easy to lay on the charm. And when she invites him back to her place, all he can say is "yes!"
In the cab, they're making out, and it's like a dream come true. But there's a cloud on the horizon. Signals keep coming from the lower intestines pleading that they can't hold out forever. Okay, okay, he assures them, just wait and I'll find a proper place and time.
Back at her building, they begin the climb to her six story walkup. If our hero was feeling uncomfortable at the bottom of the steps, he was desperate by the time they got to the top. She opens the door to her apartment and he sees everything is covered in plastic and there are piles of tools and building materials lying around. "I apologize for the mess," the hot chick says, "but my apartment is in the process of a complete renovation."
"Where's your bathroom?" our hero asks, and the hot chick points at the corner of her bedroom, where the toilet hides modestly behind a humble shower curtain. She then proceeds to take off all her clothes.
It's not an ideal situation, but our hero is convinced he can figure out a way to pull off the world's first completely silent defecation. He goes behind the curtain and eases a turd out of his asshole, hoping to set it down gently in the calm water waiting below. Kerplop! Psssst-brrrt! Suffice it to say, things weren't going completely according to plan. So he decides that for the excretion of the next turd, he'll try an innovative solution. So he got a wad of toilet paper in his hand and reaches it around in back and prepares to catch the turd before it can fall into the water. To steady himself, he takes a fistful of shower curtain in his hand. But he's a drunk man and, just as the turd is coming out, he loses his balance and begins to fall. Plip-plip-plip-plip! The curtain tears loose from the rod and there our hero lies, on his side beside the toilet, covered with shower curtain and holding a turd in his hand. He flings it into the toilet and walks out of the apartment, never even turning to look at the naked hot chick on the bed. It's all just too embarrassing.


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