Tag Archives: funny shit

Guest Blog Post: Capt Cliff on IBS and World Toilet Day

27 Dec

Cliff Mazer, Ph.D. is a Clinical Psychologist in Private Practice in Sandy Springs  Georgia. He specializes in sex therapy and eating disorders. He resides in Atlanta, Georgia and has a thing for Pirates and really nice bathrooms. He was diagnosed with IBS this year.

During the day I’m supposed to be a licensed Psychologist and role model of rationality and emotional stability. At night however I revert to my alter ego as a Jewish Pirate and IBS sufferer. I also have a thing for toilets. Toilets and World Toilet Day, which was celebrated last month are subjects near and dear to my heart.

The campaign is oriented to promoting the fact that there is a pressing need (no pun intended) for toilets and better sanitation around the globe. Matt Damon has publicly addressed the tissue, er issue, by reminding us that there are more people on Earth who own cell phones than people with functioning toilets.

Ever since visiting the polished copper lavatories at the Madonna Inn in San Louis Obispo, California as a child, I have been fascinated by toilets and become somewhat of a connoisseur of bathrooms that combine the blessed trinity of form, function, and excellent ventilation. How irritating is it to visit a good friend at their nice house, stay at a swanky hotel in Las Vegas, or eat at a fantastic upscale restaurant in New York City or San Francisco (right off the dining room), only to find that they lack a simple bathroom fan that would provide adequate noise cancelling effects as well as sufficient air flow/ventilation? Awkward much?

I dont mean to talk shit but let’s face it, this is a part of being human that makes us all equal, no matter how much money we have, how fancy and expensive a car we drive, or how good-looking we might be. No matter how big or small our butt is, we all have to park our rear ends on the porcelain throne and do our business. The only difference is that Donald Trump’s throne is gold plated. I still, however, think he’s a big asshole, and that his shit DOES stink.

I admit that I may come by my obsession for toiletry by virtue of my Ashkenazi German Jewish heritage. Consider how many Yiddish words there are for poop……..too many to mention here, in fact. Let’s just say that snow is to the Eskimo as “drek” is to the average anal Jewish person with my family background.

Dont believe me? Look up the names of GI doctors and licensed Proctologists in the phone book and count how many Dr. Goldsteins and Dr. Schwartz’s there are. We specialize in Nobel prizes, entertainment, medicine, and…..shit.

Even in non academic circles and sans professional accreditation my people have shown an unusual interest in all things related to bowel function. Passing gas and engaging in “productive” BM’s are considered, along with music, food, culture and literature to be important avocations of the truly civilized.

In contrast, constipation, irregularity and the absence of stool is seen as a sign of weakness, infirmity and pity. “Oy, I havent gone in 3 days!” was perceived in my youth, not just as a simple complaint, but as a full fledged lament and solemn prayer for absolution. Such an utterance evoked not only tremendous empathy from others, but also the ultimate Kinnahora (the evil eye/spirit that was so feared it engendered an immediate superstitious behavior like spitting or throwing salt over the shoulder to ward off doom or in this case catching a bad case of constipation).

For those of you guys (goys) who cant grasp what I am saying, consider what is worse, chronic constipation or unremitting insomnia, day after day, week after week? To the Jew, both suck big time, but most of us would prefer to stay up all nite watching old reruns of the Honeymooners and the original Twilight Zone then spend a whole day with a full roll of Charmin and nothing to show for it.

Lastly, I just returned from Boca, visiting my cousin Donna at her “pied de terre” at Century Village, also known as “Cemetery Village” to the locals who are used to the nightly sirens and fire trucks cruising into the complex searching for the latest casualty to old age and old school delicatessen food (Ben’s Deli was excellent). Not only were the bathrooms in the clubhouse meticulous and the toilets so powerful that I nearly felt my hind end sucked into the vortex by the industrial turbines they use for waste disposal, but the elderly residents conversations were rife with references to all things bladder and bowel.

On the last day I was fortunate to visit the nearby Morikami Japanese Garden and Museum.  After touring the exquisite gardens we entered the original Yamato house now turned into an art center and architectural display of Japanese culture. While most of the others pondered the superbly tended bonsai trees, the colorful food court, and the intricate Samurai drawings and sculpture, I however, was mesmerized by the 2011 Japanese Toto high tech toilet demonstration.

Not only does that baby wash, dry and sanitize your tush, but it plays music, has temperature controls more sensitive then my Lexus, and can respond to multiple language voice commands. As far as I’m concerned that trumps Trumps sleazy gilded bath fixtures any day. More on this subject later. Right now I gotta go…..so to speak. CaptCliff has IBS. Arrgh!

Shit – The New Gateway Drug?

3 Jul

Hilarious video from Spike TV’s “1,000 Ways to Die” titled Fecal Attraction.

And proof that you can learn something new everyday: there is way to get high off of fermented shit called Jenkum. Just love the “Jenkologist” they interview in this clip. Sorry for the low quality of the video. The video from Spike TV wouldn’t embed properly, so to view the video from Spike, click on the link below the video. Enjoy!


They’re Like Opinions. Everyone Has One.

14 Mar

surgical gloved handsOf all possible varieties of doctor visits, those pertaining to the ass are perhaps the most embarrassing.  Don’t get me wrong, trips to the OB/GYN and urologist top the list as well.  Nothing makes a woman feel quite as vulnerable as some good old-fashioned stirrups, and urologists have been known to scare a penis into tiny-turtle-mode. Although everyone has a rump, universal ownership does not preclude individual mortification.  Trust me.  Unfortunately, I know what I’m talking about. 

On a trek through Europe in ’94, I gorged myself on bread and cheese, oblivious that the combination would produce enough ass-spackle to clog my internal plumbing and warrant a doctor’s visit.  Once you’ve had a nurse spread your cheeks while a doctor conducts a probing that results in a latex puppet show starring your own shit, your threshold for embarrassment reaches new levels. 

Take a poll of dreaded phrases a doctor can utter to a patient, and chances are “You’re going to need a colonoscopy,” will make the top ten.  Why?  Perhaps it’s the image the mere mention of the procedure connotes: plumbing devices snaking their way through one’s bowels.  All fetishes aside, it ain’t a pretty picture.  Some of the preparation for a colonoscopy is a lot like preparing for any surgical procedure.  You have to fast on a diet of clear foods for 24 to 72 hours beforehand.  But that’s where the similarities end.

By all accounts, the worst part of the preparation is drinking a solution that looks, tastes, smells and behaves like Drain-o for your intestines.  My mother referred to it as “two liters of hell,” as it set her nether regions on fire.  A friend referred to the concoction as “liquid Scrooge” because it incited a parade of meals from past, present and future to erupt from his ass.  The Ring of Fire has an evil twin that exists outside the realm of the Pacific Ocean.  Hopefully, the patient’s butt lava will only spew into his or her toilet.  My mother has not always been so lucky.  Let’s just say she had to sacrifice a few bathroom towels for the cause. 

I have always suspected that proctologists and gastroenterologists have to have a sense of humor about their job.  I just can’t imagine being exposed to that many ass-related problems and not having a good chuckle now and then.  And the stories they must have.   If you ever find yourself having to undergo an ass examination or exploratory procedure, take comfort in the fact that despite the humiliation, you’ll provide entertainment for the medical staff responsible for your well-being.  Lucky for all of us, one gastroenterologist was generous enough to share some of the most hilarious things he’s heard while his patients were under “conscious sedation”  (which involves drugs that relax the patient, but thankfully leave him with complete butt-probe amnesia).  Below, I’ve reprinted what the doctor overheard.  Enjoy!

1. ‘Take it easy, Doc. You’re boldly going where no man has gone before!

2. ‘Find Amelia Earhart yet?’

3. ‘Can you hear me NOW?’ 

4. ‘Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?’

5. ‘You know, in Arkansas , we’re now legally married.’

6. ‘Any sign of the trapped miners, Chief?’

7. ‘You put your left hand in, you take your left hand out…’

8. ‘Hey! Now I know how a Muppet feels!’

9. ‘If your hand doesn’t fit, you must quit!

10. ‘Hey Doc, let me know if you find my dignity.’

11. ‘You used to be an executive at Enron, didn’t you?’

12. ‘God, now I know why I am not gay.’

And the best one of all.

13. ‘Could you write a note for my wife saying that my head is not up there?’

(Originally printed in the Miami Herald by Dave Berry.  Read a copy of the entire article:


Poop Magnet

24 Feb

Stepping on poopMy husband is a kind and gentle man.  Most of the time.  Perhaps because he can be so patient, he is entitled to his quarterly meltdowns. 

The walls of our house bear the scars of my husband’s past tantrums.  A scratch in the hallway commemorates the Cracked-Vacuum-Attachment-Incident of 2005, which prompted him to bang said attachment on the floor, sending yet another cracked piece of the attachment flying into the wall.  A dark smudge ten inches up from the floor in the bedroom marks the fight he had with a roller duffle that busted a wheel after only three uses. 

Without a doubt, the king of all tantrums was triggered by our dog, Gretzky.  When the mutt decided to take off for the neighboring woods one sunny afternoon, my husband lost his ever-lovin’ mind. 

“You know what?” he shrieked in the middle of the street with his fists pumping in the air like he was at a rally. 

I didn’t want to ask what.  I waited in silence for the inevitable freak-out promised by my husband’s wild-eyed look reminiscent of Chevy Chase’s infamous “Merry Christmas!  Holy shit!”

And I wasn’t disappointed.

“F#*k him! We just don’t have a dog anymore!”

I looked around the neighborhood to see if there were children present.  Thankfully there were not.

“Now, Brendon, honey.  I know you’re pissed, but we have to go look for him.  He might get hit by a car.”

“No!”  Brendon flailed around like his was winding up to pitch with both arms.  “He ran away!  He doesn’t know how good he has it.  We feed him.  We take him for walks.  And this is how he repays us?”  And with that, Brendon turned on his heel and marched home.

Five minutes later, however, he returned with the car and we looked for our dog together until we found him. 

In addition to broken appliances and runaway canines, the thing that pisses my husband off more than anything else, is stepping in dog shit.  Unfortunately, the universe has gotten this memo, and in an effort to provide him ample situations in which to practice more acceptance and patience….. well let’s just say he is a poop magnet.  As you know, I find poop hilarious.  Additionally, knowing that it is inappropriate and unproductive to laugh, only makes me want to laugh more.  It is an incredible exercise in restraint every time I see Brendon step in yet another steaming fresh pile of crap.

The poop finds him wherever we are.  Parking lots, rest areas, parks, beaches, even our own backyard.  When it happens, I stifle my laughter and offer sticks, pocketknives, bleach wipes, napkins and other shit-removal devices.  Brendon’s over-the-top reactions to these incidents force me to adopt the veneer of zen-like composure.  Underneath, I’m on the verge of erupting into hysterics. But I do what I can.

On a car trip up to New York last summer, Brendon stepped in dog crap while stretching at a gas station.  The ensuing meltdown was epic.  And hilarious. 

“Oh just great!  It’s going to take all freakin’ day to scoop this shit out of my shoes!  I’ve had these shoes for what?  A month?  This ALWAYS happens to me! Now we’re going to end up spending money on a hotel room because it’s going to take forever to get this shit out!”

Needless to say, it only took fifteen minutes to clean out the shoe, and we did not incur the cost of a hotel room. 

Our daughter, Phoebe, has been sheltered from these shit-storms, as I offer the cleaning implements to my husband and then take Phoebe for a nice long walk while, “Daddy cleans up the poopy.” 

Last week, on a perfect spring day that I wanted to bottle, my daughter and I walked around a lake and discussed the glorious weather.  We headed back to the car through an open field.  Acres stretched in front of us.  In her brand new white sneakers she was wearing for the first time, in all that open space, my daughter found the one lone pile of dog shit.  What were the odds?  I decided then and there, that being a poop magnet must be a genetic trait.  The oddest proclivities creep their way into our DNA like little time bombs. I waited to see if my little darling would also suffer from the “shit-happens-to-me-meltdown.” 

“Mommy, I think I stepped in dog poop.  Why didn’t the owner clean up the poop like you do for Gretzky?” 

Thank the Lord!  We were going to have a calm and rational discussion.  Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t excited about cleaning the crap out of my daughter’s new shoes.  But I’ll take shit over a shit-storm any day.

Poo Munchers: Then and Now.

18 Feb

Below you’ll find a video of a suspected poo muncher, which we suspect is named Pumpkin – see the gross, but true story, “Third World Third Grader” below the video for explantion.

Third World Third Grader

Mrs. Kane was a bitch.  I didn’t know the word for it when I was in her third grade class, but I knew what she was.  Among her pet peeves was letting kids go to the bathroom.  As I have always had a peanut-sized bladder and over-active bowels, this was bad news for me.  If there was already a kid out of the room, you could forget raising your hand.   Ms. Kane was convinced that evil “Shenanigans” would break out in full force if more than one child walked the hall to the bathroom at the same time. 

My saving grace from the pee-pee dance fate of my fellow third-graders was a letter my mother had written to Ms. Kane.  When I came home with major skid marks in my underpants my mother’s inquisition began.

“Stephanie, how did this happen? You’re a big girl.  Didn’t you ask Ms. Kane if you could go to the bathroom?”

“Yes, but she wouldn’t let me.”

“What do you mean she wouldn’t let you?”

“I raised my hand and she told me to put it down because I already went. I tried to tell her that this time it was for number two, but she hushed me and told me that she knew I just wanted to get up to Shenanigans in the bathroom.”

“How long did she make you wait?”

“Until lunch.  It was a really long time.  I tried to hold it, but a little came out when I ran to the bathroom.”

Furious, my mother put down the detergent and marched into the kitchen where she conjured up paper, pen and envelope from thin air and scrawled an epistle for me to hand to Ms, Kane the next day.  I never knew exactly what my mother wrote.  Whatever it was, it made Ms. Kane mutter meanly under her breath and glare at me before asking me to sit down.  She even let me go to the bathroom while one of my classmates, Sara, was already in there.  Needless to say, Ms. Kane and I were not on good terms that day.  And it was about to get worse. 

The only thing worse than making third graders collaborate on something is not letting them pick their collaborator.  Ms. Kane was a sadist in addition to being a bitch. She announced ceremoniously to the class that she was pairing us up to work on a project that day.

“And when I read off the names of who will be working together, I don’t want to hear any complaints.  No sighs, no faces, no moaning.  Understood?  You will learn to work together.”

Now, I had heard this directive, but I was a third grader.  My filter had its limits.  My last name was Alchermes.  I was the first victim on the list.

Ms. Kane’s voice boomed, “Stephanie will be working with Sara.”

“No!”  It was so loud and sudden, I wasn’t sure it had come from me at first. 

Oh, but it had. 

Ms. Kane’s wrathful stare pounded into me, eradicating my indignation, or at least the outward appearance of indignation.  Inwardly I was seething.  And with good reason.

Sara may have been her first name, but everyone in the third grade called her Pumpkin.  I have no idea why.  We were eight-year-olds.  In retrospect, Sara’s squat and rotund stature just naturally lent itself to that name.  She simply looked like a pumpkin, with brown curly hair that was rarely brushed.  Or washed. Hygiene was not high on Pumpkin’s list of priorities. 

Every elementary school classroom has that one kid who smells, the kid who repeatedly infects the rest of the students with lice.  As an adult and mother, I now understand just how sad that kid’s life is.  But as a third grader, all I cared about was avoiding the kid who stank, and now I was being forced to work in close quarters with her.  I feared contamination.  I feared her stigma might be contagious.  I also had already suffered her company in the bathroom earlier that day and did not want to repeat the proximity under any circumstances.  My fears were temporarily vanquished by Ms. Kane’s fuming voice.

“Stephanie Jane Alchermes, didn’t I just tell everyone that they would work with their partners with no complaints?  No eye-rolling?  No loud sighs?”

Fearing her line of questioning was rhetorical, I sat silent and swallowed the tablespoon of bile that had risen in the back of my throat.

“Well?” she screeched, standing with hands on hips and eyes bulging.


“What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m sorry.”

With that, Ms. Kane moved on to pairing the rest of my classmates, who resigned themselves to silence after they saw the verbal ass-kicking I had just sustained.

With my stomach still in knots, I reluctantly relocated to Pumpkin’s desk so we could work on our project, which was creating a menu for a hypothetical restaurant we would invent together.  Food was the last subject I wanted to discuss with this odd specimen of a human being.  You see, there was a reason for my uncharacteristic outrage.

Earlier, while Pumpkin and I we were in the girls’ bathroom together, I had seen Pumpkin do something unspeakable.  Something for which I had no context. 

In short, she horrified me. 

When Ms. Kane voiced her disdain for “shenanigans” in the bathroom, she probably imagined children throwing wet paper towels at the ceiling or scrawling on walls with contraband markers.  I don’t think she imagined what I saw Pumpkin do.

Pumpkin had already left the classroom to use the bathroom when I felt the overwhelming urge to pee.  Despite the potty-pass my mother’s letter had purchased, I was still reluctant to voice my request.  Ms. Kane still scared me, and I didn’t want to be close to the “smelly kid,” even if it meant I might piss my pants.  I tried waiting Pumpkin out, but she was gone a long time.  Finally, I couldn’t wait anymore.  The times table worksheet in front of me was starting to blur.  I needed to go now if I planned on concentrating on anything other than not wetting myself.

“And check on Sara while you’re in there Stephanie.  She’s been gone too long.” 

Ms. Kane’s instructions ushered me off to the girls’ bathroom with a mixture of dread and urgency.  The fact that Pumpkin had been absent for so long could mean only two things: shenanigans, or poop.  I hoped for the former.  She already stank enough.

I entered the girls’ bathroom and went directly into the first stall, slammed it shut and peed.  As I washed my hands in one of the pink sinks, I had the odd sensation that I was being watched.

And I was. 

There in the mirror, in addition to my own face, was Pumpkin’s reflection.  For some unexplained reason, Pumpkin had chosen to relieve herself in the door-less stall that every other girl in the third grade avoided. 

She stared at me and grunted.  It was very clear that she was dropping the kids off at the lake, and that I was a reluctant witness to the deed. 

Her grunt was quick and shallow.  I reached out to grab a paper towel and feigned ignorance.  But I saw it anyway.  One of the great mysteries of my life.

Pumpkin’s stall, though unequipped with a door, was equipped with toilet paper.  This fact either escaped Pumpkin’s notice, or didn’t factor into her post-dump routine.  In the mirror, very clearly reflected for me, was the horror film of her next move.  Methodically, and while her stare still bored into me, Pumpkin took her bare hand, reached around and wiped her soiled ass.

Incredulous, I found myself unable to turn away.  Frozen with a wad of paper towels in my hands, I watched in continued horror as she brought a freshly squeezed butt nugget to her mouth.  She shoved it in face as if it were a fine chocolate and licked her fingers until she had devoured every morsel of her doody delicacy. 

So I ran.  I ran all the way back to Ms. Kane’s classroom. 

“No running!” Ms. Kane’s shrill reproach greeted my return.

Later that morning, as I sat across the desk from Pumpkin, planning out how much we would charge for our hypothetical spaghetti at our imaginary restaurant, I thought, briefly, about asking her why. Why did she eat her own poop?  But I could feel Ms. Kane watching me like a hawk, and I couldn’t handle any more shit lists.  Of any kind. 

But when Pumpkin added chocolate pudding to our imaginary restaurant’s menu, I knew what she really meant.

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