Showing posts with label poop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poop. Show all posts

Friday, February 17, 2012

Smoking the bowl

Longtime readers will recall the ongoing struggles we've had over the years with inconsiderate poopers dirtying the workplace toilets and environs with assorted human filth. Whether it's somehow managing to make the stall appear as though a fight with ass peanut-filled pillows had taken place or coating the bowl and underside of the seat with high velocity, omnidirectional blowback, walking into the infamous Stall Two can be a literal shit show.

Though our company isn't tiny, it's small enough that through careful observation of coworkers' digestive schedules and dietary habits, ultimately those dirty of ass and devoid of consideration for others are identified. It may take months, perhaps even years, but you will be found, publicly shamed, and permanently barred from using any toilet closer than the truckstop by the freeway.

Today I discovered the identity of the hedgehog who has been littering the toilet seat with a sea of curly ass hair and toasty poop crumbs. Through pure coincidence, I walked into the mens room just as he was exiting the stall. Normally I would never follow someone's opening act and sit on a warm toilet seat, but the other bathrooms in the building were occupied, and I was already crowning. As he washed his hands, I walked into the stall to find the seat looking like the floor of a hamster barber shop. I felt like turning around and yelling, "My God, man! Did you shave a fucking chihuahua in here?" I made a passive aggressive show of spraying the whole mess down with Lysol before I closed the door, wiped the seat down, and caked it with 4 rolls of extra chalky discount warehouse toilet paper before I sat down to unload.

The hedgehog, however, is the least of my worries these days. The particularly vexing mystery shitter has been the anonymous soul who has somehow managed to coat the bowl above the water line, all the way up to and including the inside of the rim, with solid chunks of spattered cake balls that no amount of water alone will wash away (trust me, I've tried urinating these chunks away with all of the pressure I could muster, to no avail). This is not your typical shit-through-a-screen-door cloudy ass water. These are dollups of solid shit ranging in size from pushpin head, all the way up to a smashed Peanut M&M found on the bottom of your shoe.

Though this fecal blunderbussing is disturbing enough, what's more unsettling is the lone quarter-sized wad of poo that intermittently appears on the back of the rim, immediately beneath the seat. How is this even possible? Perhaps he is touching his toes whilst shitting or sitting on the throne backwards, leaning back, and renacting the chair scene from Flashdance. But the most likely theory involves the poor, fiber-starved chap halfway through squeezing out a cheese grater-textured gorilla fist. Suddenly he finally gets three stars on the last level of Angry Birds, drops his phone on the floor admist the excitement, and leans forward to retrieve it. The lever action of his body raises the femur-straight log, rippling with musculature and self-awareness, to kiss the rim gently, leaving a minature unfrosted cupcake clinging to the porcelain with the power of Fixodent and strong nuclear force.

Until we catch this ill-mannered artist-in-residence Bob Rossing the commode with happy little brown trees, we will take shifts surveilling the mens room, lingering far too long after we pee, and stopping random office mates to make desperately contrived conversation in the hallway within view of the bathroom door. Take care out there, people. Wear your vest and keep your safety off.

Friday, April 29, 2011

Would you like to see where my poop goes? (no, really!)

In order to cut down the amount of waste water being treated, The City of Eagan is requiring all homeowners to have their sewer connections inspected for illegal and improper connection (e.g. sump pumps dumping into the sewer, etc). The choices are have your sewer inspected or start racking up fines. I decided to get it out of the way as soon as possible.

The inspector arrived on time for our 7 am appointment on March 16th and set to work at getting the cover off of the sewer drain pipe. After about a half hour of struggling with the cap, which probably hadn't been removed in over 40 years, he let his fancy camera do the walking. I passed the inspection, but was surprised when they mailed me a DVD of the whole thing. Dear homeowner, in commemoration of looking down your poop hole, we thought you'd enjoy looking down your own poop hole, too. Guess what -- I did! This is the actual video from the inspection, albeit slightly sped up. There are annotations and hints on extended portions that are skippable. But please, I invite you to look in my poop chute.

Friday, December 17, 2010

Afterglide goes to London: don't it make my white shoes brown

As some of you already know, I recently returned from a fairly whirlwind trip to London. Being my first trip ever that required a passport, it was quite exciting. Making things a bit easier, I went with my longtime friend Mary, who is quite an experienced traveler, both domestically and internationally. In fact, she had been to London once before back in 2000, so she was somewhat familiar with getting around the city. So we rode the tube, minded the gap, and punched a Midlander in the back (I was just going with the flow).

On Monday, we stood patiently in the cold to watch the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. Fair warning, if you ever go, it isn't the 15 or 30 minute ceremony I envisioned, but rather a 9 hour ordeal in which they produce the complete, unabridged works of Shakespeare and vacuum up an entire horse under the watchful eye of Sir James Dyson. Am I glad I saw it? Yes, it's crossed off my list of life experiences. Would I see it again? No, not unless promised an ungloved dry rub behind the guard hut 'round the corner.

Since it was our last full day in London, we packed in as much as we could. Before heading out to a performance of Les Misérables, we stopped back at our hotel across from Victoria station to freshen up and rest briefly. As I plopped down to sit, Mary opened up the window. Immediately, I noticed a strange odor and thought to myself, "Hmm, something sure stinks outside!" A few minutes later, while crossing the room to get to the bathroom, I noticed brownish streaks and chunks mottling the carpet. It didn't take me long to make the connection between that and the smell. I lifted my shoe to inspect the bottom, and sure enough, the treads were completely mashed full of moist, gooey dog shit. FUCK!

I hurriedly kicked the shoe off and made my way to the bathroom, alerting Mary to the problem along the way. She set about scrubbing the carpet with a wet towel while I gingerly picked and prodded shit out of my shoe with wads of toilet paper. Judging from the putrid smell, the dog must have eaten a burrito and a hedgehog just prior to releasing crosslaid logs, which I presume were emitting a healthy, roiling steam given the glistening freshness of the shit and the crisply cool weather conditions. I'd say it was a wonder that I missed it, but I imagine I was busy gawking at a landmark or at some English bird's tits.

Normally when I travel and know there will be a lot of sightseeing and walking, I just wear my running shoes. I know they'll be comfortable and won't tear the the hell out of my feet, even after putting several miles a day on them. Thankfully, I had the foresight to pack a separate, if not slightly less informal pair of Rockport walking shoes for this trip, because that dog shit just wasn't coming out easily, and Mary refused to let me use her hairbrush. I sealed the offensively browned kick tightly in a plastic shopping back, and stowed that in one of the airtight Space Bags I had brought to make more room in my luggage. I really didn't care to get turd residue all over my clothes and toiletries on the way home, though that might have made for an interesting conversation had my bag been selected for inspection when going through customs.

Alas, arriving home didn't absolve me of the task of cleaning shit out of my shoe. I thought if I froze the shit, I could tap it out of the treads. But wailing upon my concrete front step with my poop shoe proved to be a fruitless endeavor. I really haven't had the heart or stomach to attack it with any further voracity, so for now, I have returned the shoe to my uninsulated garage, where our Minnesota winter icebox has frozen it solid, locking its foul fecal odors firmly in place until the first thaw reminds me of the duty I shirked. I would like to resume my workout routine, however, so I will make due with an older, more worn pair of running shoes until I either break down and attack the problem with your Christmas Sonicare or give up and purchase a new pair of shoes. Right now I'm leaning toward the latter and finding an alternate means of ruining your expensive toothbrush.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Pizza Hut unveils Poop Stuffed Pizza

DALLAS (Nov. 23, 2010) - For some reason, the public asked for it, so we delivered. For the past 15 years, Americans have salivated over our tasty Stuffed Crust pizza. And when they cried out for a pizza crust filled to the brim with piping hot human feces, we were like "Seriously? What? No, really, you want a SHIT-FILLED PIZZA?" Then we were like, "Dude. Whatever the fuck. If your credit card's still good, we've got what you want." After tripling the salary of our disgusted test kitchen chefs and giving them Hepatitis shots, they finally agreed to drop the class action lawsuit and get to work making you a turd-filled pie glistening with hot pepper oil and smelling of fresh mozzarella and Flaming Cheetos. God, I think I'm going to be sick -- oh, I mean PRESS RELEASE!

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Tidy chortle, sloppy meow

How appropriate
I've known for years that I'm not much for unnecessary responsibility. Shit, I'm not much for necessary responsibility (I make my mortgage payments by conning particle board-quality cougars out of their barely earned cash). So therefore, dog ownership is right out. You can't leave them panting in a hot car while you shop for World of Warcraft expansion packs, and you can't leave them alone for a weekend because they'll shit all over your freshly refinished interlocking maple planks and chew up your mattress. I hear kids will do the same thing, so they're out the door, as well. Cats, on the other hand, I've been open to because they do their own thing. You can leave them alone for a couple of days while you drink yourself under a fair-trade coffee table in Portland and come home to find that maybe they frayed a curtain and left an extra cigar in the sandbox. Plus, not to say I dislike dogs, I quite honestly do enjoy cats because they are hilarious to have around.

It should come as no surprise then that we now have a 10 year old cat we rescued from a shelter, as well as a 4 month old kitten. The kitten, Tootie, who we brought home several months after the older cat, is a playful, insolent little shit who you can't get mad at because she behaves like a personable dog. She must be under your feet at all times, plays fetch with her toys, and licks my salty face while I sleep, which only occasionally wakes me. The older cat, Pooty, has had an extremely difficult time adjusting to the new kitten. Unfortunately, our initial reaction was to overindulge her with treats, and her reaction, under constant threat of a spastic kitten dive bombing on top of her at any given moment, was to begin a pattern of overeating so she could quickly get the hell away from the food bowl to hide in an enclosed space. This has caused a fast and alarming weight gain. In a few weeks, she has gone from pleasantly plump to morbidly unable to lick her own asshole.

Yeah, yeah. I'm not done shitting in your short pants yet.
Cats are naturally neat and tidy creatures, at least when it comes to their own hygiene. But when a cat can't clean it's own pot pie, you are forced to have frequent and uncomfortably close encounters with a brown, splotchy crab nebula of dried, hairy turds and other myrid fecal splashback. If she sits in your lap, suddenly you've got a toddler's drawing of a chocolate starfish soaked into your denim. This is why we took matters into our own hands by buying special kitty wet wipes to clear her rainforest of fallen logs and seasonal day mud. We've severely limited her treat intake and have made an extra effort to keep her active and engaged each day. This is a challenge, because she was lazy and unmotivated from the start. Now that she's packed on a freshman 15, she's often content to watch laser toys from afar, taking minimal effort to mentally note its existence.

So if I can't keep a cat from getting so fat it can't wipe its ass, it frightens me to think what would happen with a child. Then again, with a child, you could just pressure wash his buttery crack in the shower or back yard.

Friday, July 09, 2010

Pooped under the bench

My half-assed first attempt at using xtra normal, which a Best Buy employee used to make this now-infamous (and hilarious) iPhone 4 video.

Sunday, February 07, 2010

Mister Steamy

Mister Steamy is a spherical octopus that poops in your dryer.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

With or without poo

Proper placement of truncation in your RSS feed can make all the difference.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Bathroom remodel shoot, day 2

Right after I had jumped out of the shower and had just started getting dressed around 7:10 this morning, the door bell rang. Shit, they were early! Or more accurately Eoin was early. That dude must roll out of bed at the crack of dawn daily because he was quite early last week, as well. I yelled "Just a minute!" at the door and quickly threw on the first clean pair of underwear. I'll just have to get my ass in gear a little earlier on Tuesday, the final day of shooting, and presumably when the bathroom will be what we at my workplace call "fully complete" (as opposed to partially complete, better known as incomplete).

My "poop" funnel practical jokeI couldn't help have a little fun with the crew given the idea that popped into my head over the weekend after countless exasperating trips ALL THE WAY DOWNSTAIRS to go to the bathroom (I know, right?). What if I just decided I was sick of it and started shitting down the open toilet hole. I figured it might involve a funnel and you can see how much fun you can have with some chocolate whipped yogurt. I think one of the guys momentarily thought maybe one of the sheetrock guys had shit all over, and I just hadn't checked in to realize it (I don't know why he would have assumed it wasn't ME who shit all over, but then again, we only met a week ago).

Oops!The first thing we shot was Matt and I talking about the progress so far in the bathroom, including the sheetrock work the happened over the weekend. We then moved to the garage where the new whirlpool tub and fancy surround that came with it were laid out, and talked about how whirlpooly and fancy they are (but seriously, they're pretty friggin' sweet). And what comes after talking about the new tub and surround? Why, installing them of course. Fortunately the new tub is made of a composite material and was a hell of a lot easier to carry in than it was to carry out the old cast iron tub. Or at least it should have been. As Matt and I carried in the tub, he made a momentary pivoting decision that resulted in the front, right corner of the tub skirt breaking right the hell off. Oops! I wasn't too concerned, even though there was no way we'd get the sponsor to donate another tub, not to mention not plowing forward would completely screw up the shoot schedule. I was confident someone would come up with a solution (and could totally see doing something like that myself, given my track record). And Matt redeemed himself with a pretty kick ass workaround, one which I will make you wait to see until the show has aired, unless you want come over to take a look when it's all done.

The bathtub incident made for great TV, at least for this show. They never make everything look completely easy and perfect, often work around mistakes and unexpected issues on camera, and usually end up having some fun with it. The tub was no exception. I used it as fodder for giving Matt on-camera shit for the rest of the day, and he gave back in kind using my injury from day one, constantly reminding me not to bleed all over whatever we were working on, cut myself anew, and so forth.

Chris finds a use for my tub spoutThe rest of the day actually seemed to go by pretty quickly. We installed the surround for the tub, built a cabinet (no, really -- WE actually built a cabinet, and it looks pretty damn good), installed some very interesting tile on the wall, and started tiling the floor.

The floor tile also involves a pretty unique design, this one being composed of solid metal tiles. Thankfully they were donated by a sponsor because those fuckers are $66 per square foot! Holy whipped yogurt shit! I was pissed when Home Depot raised the price of the floor tile I wanted to use in my kitchen from $0.99 per square foot to $1.19. But trust me, when you finally see them, you'll understand why, because they are $66 per square foot worth of wicked.

Over tomorrow through Monday, Jim and some of his subcontractors will be returning to do the final coat of mud on the sheetrock and sand everything down, finish the floor tile, and do some other finishing details to prep for the last shoot day of Tuesday. That's when we'll install the vanity, sinks, faucets, the cabinet, and all of the final finishing touches. Unmerciful crap, this is going to kick ass!!

Friday, March 13, 2009

That's all well and good, but...

...can it flush a turd the size of a loaf of Wonder Bread?

This Toilet Is Awesome - Watch more

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Race to the finish

I was on the tail end of bowling a solid 300 in Stall Two when the door of the mens room burst open, and a pair of patent leather shoes clopped toward lowercase stall one, soon to be surrounded by dropped khaki. Dammit... can't a guy get any privacy when he's unchaining a melody? Well, no big deal. I was just about to wipe and wash anyway. I had just given a courtesy flush and started dabbing at my crack when Leatherfoot was already unfurling paper and clinking his belt buckle. What the fuck? He hadn't even been in there for 30 seconds, and he was already wiping and pulling up his pants.

I hadn't heard so much as a grunt, fart, or splash. Did he rail gun that shit out of his ass? Maybe he sat down, pushed half-heartedly, and when nothing happened by the time he exhaled, he abandoned ship to avoid the risk of a lone bead of sweat forming on his brow. Or maybe he peed sitting down. I didn't give a fuck, I didn't want to have a post-shit conversation with this guy, so I wiped with fury, flew out of the stall, and hauled ass to the sink. Oh, God! He had just flushed, and I had only just started soaping up my hands. Come on, come on, COME ON!! Rinse faster, goddammit! The water was still ice cold, and my haphazard wash job was probably about to spread assfluenza throughout the office, sickening our entire work force, forcing the company to close its doors for a week, lose six figures of business, outsource the IT department to the Ozarks, and put me out on the street. I didn't care. I had to get the hell out of that bathroom before Slappy Shitsfast could make it out of the stall. It was clear that I would never get all of the soap residue off of my hands in time, so I gave up, carelessly grabbed a wad of 50 or 60 paper towels from the dispenser and held them in my palm momentarily. As I was about to drop the toolbox-sized towel ball into the trash, I heard the stall door latch turning. FUCK! I was too late! Don't look at him, don't look, don't look! I looked at him. NO! Eye contact! He smiled, inhaled, and began to say something, but it didn't matter because I was already in my car driving home. I'm not talking to anyone after I shit! NO ONE!

A couple of miles from the office, my cell rang, and I flipped it open. "I don't know who the fuck this is, but I can't talk to you because I just took a shit. Not listening LA LA LA LA LA LAAAA!" I hung up the phone, tore out the battery, and threw the phone out the window to shatter on the freeway. Minutes later, as I pulled into my driveway, one of my neighbors happily jogged up to my drivers side window with what appeared to be the Girl Scout cookies I'd ordered from his daughter. NO! I knew the moment I stepped out of the car, he'd thank me for buying the cookies, so I ran him the fuck over and backed up for good measure. I sprinted for the door, threw it open, and locked it behind me. In the distance, the wail of police and ambulance sirens grew closer. SON OF A BITCH! The cops were going to try to read me my rights. No one, even a law enforcement offical, was going to talk to me, by God. I had just taken a shit, after all. What do I do, what do I do???? The door bell rang, and a heavy fist pounded. "Eagan Police Department!! Open the door!"

Oh, come on! Well, I had already been post-shit talked at, so I opened the door. One officer had moved to the bottom of the front steps with his gun drawn, while the other covered him from several feet back. Hands in the air, I broke into tears. "God damn you! Can't a guy shit and not have people yammering at him incessantly?!?"

The officers' postures loosened noticeably. The one at the rear lowered his gun, and said incredulously, "Wait, you just wanted to avoid being talked to after taking a dump?"

I sniffled. "Yes."

Now the other officer had lowered his gun, as well, and chimed in, "God dammit, I hate that shit! Why do people want to talk to you while and after you dook?"

By this time, the rear officer had holstered his gun entirely. "Well, shit. I can't in good conscience take you into custody knowing that. That's rough, man."

I blew my nose and perked up. "You won't? I mean... you can't? Oh, thank God."

The officer at the foot of the steps, scratched his head and sighed heavily. "You do realize we still have to shoot you, right?"

"Of course."

He shot me in the meat of my left thigh just in time for the ambulance to tear up the driveway, running over my moaning, bloodied neighbor.

As the ambulance raced to the hospital, I felt a familiar pinch of pressure in my gut. I had to shit. God, I hoped I wouldn't have to talk to anyone afterward.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Chia toilet

I hadn't used Stall Two much in recent weeks. I had migrated most of my mid-morning and mid-afternoon dropoffs to the bathroom by a copy machine in another part of the building. It's a little quiter, and for a time, it was a lot less likely to be covered in ass peanuts and cat pee. Then a new shitter apparently took a shine to the single-stall, and suddenly it looked like the lead singer from Crash Test Dummies was brushing his hair over the commode while spitting up chewing tobacco and corn salsa. This week I decided to return to my old haunt. Everything was fine until this morning, when I walked into the stall to find the toilet seat covered in thick nests of black, curly ass hair as if some hairy, fat Italian fuck had decided that was the best place to test drive a Norelco on his crack and taint. Then he let a bubbling pot of marinara boil over from a hot plate perched on the tank. I wonder if it would help to fill that stall full of mirrors so people can see themselves head to toe as they let these messes tumble and blow from their Jamiroquai holes. Would it fill them with shame? Are they capable of shame? If shame involves cleaning up what fell from their assquarters, then no. No, they are not.

Wednesday, December 31, 2008

Wednesday, December 03, 2008

"I'm gonna have to stand up again an hour after lunch."

Today's mid-morning rumbling came around 10:30. I toddled back to Stall Two, saw tapping feet, and had to settle for the Operations bathroom. I dropped denim, sat my ass down, and found myself acting as a human Play-Doh Fun Factory. It just kept on coming. It was long enough that one end wedged deep into the opening at the bottom of the bowl before it was all the way out, giving me no choice but to stand up slightly to finish the job. And the end of the fucking thing still managed to brush my balls as it tipped over like a rotten sequoia. I hate it when that happens. Now not only do I have to wipe my messy ass, I also have to wipe my shitty man sack. Next time, I'm standing up higher and taking a quarter step forward.

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

I has no bukkit

In honor of today being World Toilet Day, I present to you a good old fashioned poop nightmare.

On a warm summer Saturday a couple of years prior to the now-infamous furnace vent shitting incident, I had just finished sliding a mammoth 12 grain loaf out of the pan when the doorbell rang. I scurried to give my hindquarters a passable cleaning, flushed the toilet, pulled up my pants, washed my hands, and ran to the door. It was a technician from Comcast just letting me know that they would be in my back yard inspecting their lines and equipment on the utility pole. I was annoyed by the tech's poor timing but was glad they had given me a heads up.

As I closed the door and locked the deadbolt, I heard a steady hissing sound coming from somewhere in the house. I listened more closely. It was running water. Did I leave the sink running? I returned to the bathroom to find the tile floor swimming in at least an inch of brownish, chunky liquid. The toilet! Clearly I had plugged it, but why didn't it stop running? Obviously I didn't have time for sleuthing, so without a thought, I splashed across the swampy floor to desperately crank at the toilet valve until it was closed. A closed valve, however, did nothing to clean up the brackish sea teeming with darting schools of ragged clown fish and ominous thunderheads of disintegrating toilet paper and undigested spinach veins.

When I realized I was barefoot and ankle deep in my own used breakfast I began to gag. Oh God! I had to get this cleaned up. I swung the linen closet door open to grab rags, wash cloths, towels, designer jeans, anything that could possibly absorb so much as a milliliter of the warm, noxious turd water. It was rushing toward the bathroom door, so I quickly formed a towel barrier to keep the encroaching brown tide from soaking into the hallway carpet. Ignoring the fact that every pore of my bath towels was filling with soggy ass peanuts and billowing bran, I threw everything I had onto the floor. Now I was down to maybe a half inch of water. No matter, I continued to gag while choking back tears.

Now I was stuck. I had to figure out a way of scooping or soaking up the rest of this rippling commode water. I was out of towels and rags, and I wasn't about to dash out of the bathroom only to rub my squishy, wet feet all over the carpet awaiting outside. I dug through the closet. Nothing. I knelt down and searched the vanity cabinet. Cleaning supplies, disinfectant, Lysol... yes, yes, I would need all of these later, but right now I needed something to get ride of this shit water! And then I spotted something near the back of the cabinet -- a dingy plastic pencil box I used to store assorted washers, nuts, and other parts left over from when I'd fixed the sink drain. It wasn't much, but it would have to do. I dumped its contents inside the cabinet, and ran it along the floor. All it collected was a thin, translucent layer of heavy water filled with glistening clumps of melting Pudding Pops. It wasn't very efficient, but I had to do something, ANYTHING, so powered through, scooping up the mess and dumping it into the toilet turd by turd, heart to heart, left right left, like toy soldiers, awaiting the moment when I could sterilize the bathroom with napalm and gamma rays. Soon my pretty, soon.

Monday, November 10, 2008

Powder farts

I would blame the alcohol, but I didn't consume a single drop last night. After a viewing of Winchester '73 with Bunny and Coco, Ang recalled a photo of a quilter I had found randomly with an unrelated google image search. That image led us down a dark path spanning several websites, marked by $3,000 sarlaccian quilts the size of a pizza box and of monstrous "wearable art" that looks like someone wet down a slender model and rolled her down a leafy hillside. Ang's recollection then led me to suggest we google search a random phrase, "custard fart." Apparently there is an entire subculture, seemingly comprised primarily of giggling high schoolers and drunken frat boys, who talcum powder each other in the crack so that they may push forth a billowing, dusty pyroclastic surge from their chattering asshole. No. Really. Don't believe me? Here is one of the results for a google search for "custard fart."

[NSFW!] Custard fart

Now wander your way through the related videos, and you will see dozens upon dozens of bare asses shooting farty clouds of fine powder into the air. Here's an impressive example:

[NSFW!] Kaboom!

Oh, but this all seems like innocent fun until the videos become less "Hey, I'm a little drunk and wouldn't mind powdering my buddy's exposed browneye for some lulz" to "Hi there, big boy, I'm going to fart bare-assed into this pudding while you masturbate to it." This [**totally** NSFW!!] pudding fart video is where we had to stop our little adventure, particularly after little chunks of shit came out into the pudding. Or at least I had to stop. A fellow can only take so much before he has to excuse himself to his hosts' kitchen to quietly tug out a creamer into their oven.

Thursday, November 06, 2008

Splash water

Ed sends in this question:

JQA, I have a "Good Question" for you.

What's it called when someone pre-flushes a toilet (clearing up remnants) then sits down before the flush is done flushing. I'm specifically referring to hard flushing commercial grade toilets.

Ed, you've hit on a rare poop/toilet scenario that I have not put through much analysis, as I would never dream of sitting on the toilet before it's done flushing, especially with some other person's poo remnants floating around and coating the bowl. In fact, if I'm in a large enough stall, I will turn away from the toilet and go to the opposite end of the stall. If necessary, I will actually leave the stall, walk down to the corner store, buy a Snickers bar and a horoscope, walk back, and if someone has contaminated my pre-flush, start the process over again. If it prevents me from breathing particles of some other dude's shit vapors, it's all worth it. And never mind getting toilet water splashed up your ass pucker.

So the short answer to your question is, I would call that just plain unsanitary. And I'd also call it a premature visit to the moisture farm.

Sunday, November 02, 2008

Poop Freeze

The very real product advertised in the video embedded below will freeze poop. Why would you freeze poop? Well, let's say your 50 pound dog grunts one out on the living room carpet. Freeze it, scoop it up with a spatula (make sure to wash the spatula before using it to dish out fresh chocolate chip cookies), and toss it in the trash. Easy as steaming pie! I'm so glad this product came along. I can't tell you how many times I've dragged the deep freeze up from the basement, opened the door, and flipped it over to freeze some shit that I--er, I mean a dog left on my carpet. I'm going to order some of this stuff and use it in Stall Two. Then I'll just go in there with a respirator and a leaf blower and clean that abstract art realistic.

Satisfied user Kaitlyn is quoted on their website as saying, "One of my chores that I love to hate is picking up our beloved Buddy's poop. POOP-FREEZE changed that - it's makes this chore fun (but don't tell my mom that)."

I don't know what Kaitlyn was doing before, but if picking up poop wasn't fun, she was doing it wrong. Also, why is she picking up her buddy's poop? Did he have too much tequila and make a mess in the hot tub again? Either way, that's a pretty tight friendship. Poop on, Kaitlyn!