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Because something died up there.

There is a cloud of doom hanging over the day, and whatever died in your ass is where it started.

Starbucks is a public place, populated with random people, I am ok with that.

But, whatever freak dietary lifestyle you live that can render a bathroom uninhabitable for upwards of 30 minutes after you drop a deuce becomes everybody’s problem.

I was writing and sipping coffee-

Wait, let’s be honest.

I was sipping coffee THEN writing when I felt my fiber supplement change my agenda.

We will be shitting NOW, please.

I headed to the bathroom.

It was a single seater and occupied, so I waited.

No more than a moment later, I heard the toilet flush.

Soon after, the door opened and a business suit walked out.

I would give more of a description, but I either didn’t care enough to look, or wasn’t paying attention, so “business suit” is all you get.

I made it to the door jam when the smell hit my nose and my entire body locked up.

I was unable to enter the bathroom.

I broke my nose several times over the years and my sense of smell is greatly diminished.

This unholy stench bitch-slapped its way past all that, and gang-raped my olfactory system in a truly brutal fashion that made prison rape look like a sensual massage by comparison.

And this was just in a second at the door.

I went and sat back down at my table.

I was in danger of shitting myself, but it would be preferable to entering the feces slaughterhouse at the back of the room.

I managed to sit at my table in full rectal clench for 10 minutes, watching a total of 3 people approach the unisex bathroom only to be turned back at the threshold like souls denied entry into heaven.

Finally, I got to the point that I HAD to go.

I stood and pointed myself towards the back of the room.

The shitting myself danger was hitting critical and it was painful to stand up straight.

At the doorway, I realized just how poor the HVAC in a Starbucks bathroom could be.

I have heard of people under great stress speaking in tongues.

As I moved to the unholy porcelain seat, I became aware of a muttered, low level string of obscenities streaming from my mouth.

To say that it stank of shit would be an insult to ordinary shit.

This was first round hall of fame stink.

I will not be going into the gory, smelly details here, some things, especially rancid things are better left unsaid.

I finished, washed my hands in a daze, and staggered from the room, like a man surviving an explosion.

I considered myself lucky.

I would have to go home, burn my clothes and may never smell again, but I survived.

It wasn’t until the next morning that the miracle happened.

I decided to get a Sumatran blend, a pour-over, as a treat for my brush with death the day before.

And as I got to the cream and sugar kiosk, out of reflex, I took the lid off and raised the cup to my nose.

And inhaled a glorious dark roast from Sumatra.

Its was a miracle.

Mmmmm coffee.

 
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Posted by on April 14, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

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High fiber means a happy ass.

I recently began taking a fiber suppliment.

To put it bluntly, I was not being regular.

And I need a little regularity in my life.

So, Metamucil it is.

And the shit works, literally.

You should see my morning BM.

Color, consistency, firmness, its a thing of beauty.

I may start selling my dueces on Ebay.

And firmness? I may be only a week away from never having to wipe again.

(If I was not laughing non-stop during the writing of all of this, I might hesitate to post it. As it is, fuck yeah!)

My mother will not be happy with any of this post at all.

I just ran the Ebay line past her and I was glad my CPR card was up to date, because the woman practically shit herself. (Without the benefit of high-fiber. Her loss.)

So, this post is all about shit.

My shit, fiber-induced shit, the shit I will take for writing about shit, you name it.

The shit will hit the fan.

I wrote the section above roughly a day ago and even I am a little queasy about the idea of a post all about my bowel movements.

Not enough to keep me from doing it, mind you, but enough to worry me.

I get a fair amount of hate mail as it is.

The most consistent bunch that email me are the closet english teachers.

They all start their emails the same way.

“I am not an english teacher, but-”

The one thing none of them have ever written was “will my writing you make any difference?”

The answer is no.

If anything, my belligerent side kicks up and I find myself adding 1-2 more grammatical mistakes of the same sort, just to be a dick.

As I have said before, its important to have a hobby. Fucking with people is mine.

The second most consistent group that emails me to complain are the people who believe that if a subject is rude, inappropriate or politically incorrect, you should not mention it.

This “Stick your head in the sand and it will go away” philosophy has worked so well in every other facet of their lives, why not share the love.

Confrontation is not a polite way of doing things, but it does get shit done.

Maybe its not the slickest way of handling things, but there are less things keeping me up late at night because of it.

Just wanted to get all of that off of my chest.

Or out of my ass, as it were.

 
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Posted by on November 18, 2013 in Uncategorized

 

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