Tag Archives: funny shit

Love Stinks

14 Feb


“It smells like shit in here.”

This is never what you want to hear first thing in the morning. My husband, Brendon, had just arrived in the kitchen.

“Where’s the dog?” I asked.

“Gretzky!” Brendon called.

Gretzky was hiding. Not a good sign.

“He took a dump in his bed,” I announced with genuine incredulity.

“Oh, no. Why would he do that? Why didn’t he wake us up?”

“I think I have an idea,” I said, a little ashamed.

Some pet owners think their animals are capable of extraordinary loyalty and understanding. I am definitely in this category. When my daughter was only three months old she had a fever that spiked without warning in the middle of the night. Well, it was without warning to me- a mere human with limited olfactory capabilities. My dog, Gretzky, had been sniffing at the infant, licking her profusely and pacing back and forth between the baby and me for the previous twenty-four hours. Gretzky had even fallen asleep in front of the baby’s nursery door, something he had never done before. The dog always slept on the floor of the master bedroom.

I had paid no attention to the dog. He had tried to tell me, but I thought he was merely being annoying. Despite my oblivion, Gretzky had been attempting the proverbial Lassie routine (Come on everyone. Follow me. Timmy’s trapped in the well), but to no avail. Our little girl woke up wailing at three in the morning with a high fever, and the dog was already waiting crib-side with hound dog eyes that said I told you so. Needless to say, I felt terrible for having dismissed his doggy clues. I don’t relay this story so that you will understand when I dress my dog up like Superman for Halloween. Just know that he is sensitive and in tune with our family and their physical and emotional well-being.

My husband is my best friend and we rarely argue. I’m not trying to be corny or gushing. It’s a fact. When we do argue it is generally a heated discussion with no yelling, some emotionally charged rants punctuated by uncomfortable silences, followed by much needed and deserved apologies. Then life goes on. That really is it. We never go to bed angry. Except that one time.

Most couples have that one fight that was a real doozey. Our doozey is actually comical in retrospect, but at the time it seemed so serious. There were even real tears. Basically it involved my husband’s aversion to giving a kid extra vitamins and my belief in doing exactly that during flu season. Then, in the middle of the debate, I chuckled to myself that we were arguing about vitamins.

Rule of couples fighting #1- Don’t laugh until the other party is at least cracking a smile.

So, I broke the rule and the whole day sucked. For my husband. But I thought we had moved on. After all, I already found the whole thing mildly entertaining. Yeah… um. See Rule #1. We entertained for dinner that night in our home, and I thought the remainder of the day and evening had been salvaged without a hitch. Until the buffer of company left. Apparently, the Vitamin War was still on.

Thinking the whole thing absurd, I resolved not to give hubby the satisfaction of an unwarranted apology or grace him with my presence. After we put our daughter to bed, I grabbed a book and headed upstairs, leaving him to lounge in front of the TV by himself. I pretended to read for about an hour. Then two hours. Then three. No footfalls on the stairs coming up to apologize or talk. Fine. I can wait. Then the TV clicked off and he went to bed. Fine. I fell asleep upstairs.

The dog was utterly confused. For the hours Brendon and I were giving one another the silent treatment, Gretzky was in crisis. The poor pooch paced back and forth, whining. He trotted up and down the stairs trying to find a spot to rest that wasn’t tainted by tension. I awoke at five in the morning and made my way downstairs to the bedroom. Gretzky was nowhere to be found.

Without saying ‘good morning,’ my husband got out of bed at eight and wandered into the kitchen. When I heard his shitty announcement, I leapt out of bed and followed him.

“So why do you think he shit his bed?” My husband really didn’t get it.

“He was upset that Mommy and Daddy were fighting. He didn’t even know where to sleep last night.”

“Oh.”

And then we made eye contact and smiled.

“I’m sorry,” we overlapped each other.

“See, Gretzky. Mommy and Daddy love each other.” Brendon made a big show of grabbing my ass and kissing my lips. Then we kissed and hugged in earnest. Then we helped one another clean up the dog shit. And that, my friends, is marriage.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

Strange Days Indeed

2 Feb

My daughter is three now, but sometimes I just stare at her in disbelief across the breakfast table.  There is a person there, where before there was no person.  She grew in my belly like a science project.  And now she talks to us.  Some days it’s as if she’s been living in our house for always, other days she seems miraculous.  Sometimes it’s just weird.  The truth about parenting is that nothing can prepare you for just how weird it can be. 

The things kids say and the things they make you say….It’s all just unexpected and unpredictable.  Living with a three-year-old is a lot like living with a drunk midget.  They’re tiny, loud and demanding.  And there’s the occasional puddle of puke and random dump on the floor.  You never know what the day will bring.

Before I was a mom, I’d see stories on the news about terrible things happening to kids and I would be very judgmental. Not anymore.  When I have to go to the bathroom and my toddler is playing quietly, I think to myself, “What’s the worst that could happen in the two minutes I’ll be in the other room?”

Well, the kid could catch on fire or end up unconscious and bald sprawled out next to the electrical outlet with a fork in one hand.  But that’s not what I think about when I am desperate for a quiet dump alone without my drunken midget audience smacking my knees and asking why poop smells so awful.  All I am thinking is, “Victory is mine!  I can shit in peace and the little bugger won’t even know I’m gone.” 

Several months ago, I had such an opportunity for a private poop while my daughter was completely lost in her watercolor painting.  When I returned from the bathroom, the dog was walking around the house with a pencil hanging out of his ass.  

“What happened here?” I asked my little midget.    

All I got was a blank stare and a meek “I dunno.” 

Sometimes bad stuff happens and I’m right there, powerless to stop the onslaught of bruises or the soiling of clean clothes.  The very next day after the pencil-in-dog-ass incident, my daughter was eating at the table with no pants on.  I don’t know what she did with them.  Just when I was going to ask her what she did with them, she burst out, bright as sunshine, “Mommy I just had a wet fart.”

“What do you mean?” 

She sat up and announced, “Look at it Mommy.  It looks like a little slug.” 

It did.  There was a poop slug curled up peacefully on the kitchen chair. I scooped up my daughter roughly and ran to the bathroom, because another ‘slug’ was in the process of escaping her ass.

When I returned to the kitchen, intent on disposing of the wet-fart-poop-slug, my bleach wipes were met with an empty chair.  Genuinely perplexed, I stood there examining the other, equally empty, kitchen chairs. 

“There was poop here twenty seconds ago,” I mused aloud to nobody in particular but the dog. 

The dog who stared at me, licking his lips. 

“Oh, no!”  I shouted. 

His response was to merely lick his lips again and wag his tail, alternating his gaze from me to the kitchen chair as if to say, “Yeah, yeah. Give me another one of those poop slug snacks.”

My first instinct was to reprimand the dog, but then I spotted tiny little shit crumb he had left behind and said, “There you go buddy you missed a spot.” 

And then I laughed until my cheeks burned and my abs ached.  Not just because my dog ate my daughter’s shit, or because just the day before my daughter had shoved a pencil into the dog’s ass. It was because John Lennon was speaking to me through the radio.  Normally when Lennon “speaks” to me through the radio it is some poignant reminder of the simple necessity of peace, but not that day.  That day he seemed to speak to me about the wonderful weirdness of parenthood: the drunken midgets, the poop slugs, the poop-eating puppies; all of it.

“Nobody told me there’d be days like these. Strange days indeed.  Most peculiar Momma.” 

Amen.

You Down with O.P.P.?

25 Jan

“OPP, how can I explain it
I’ll take you frame by frame it…
O is for Other, P is for People…
The last P…well…that’s not that simple…”

Blast from the past.  It’s 1991 (how the hell is that twenty years ago?) and Naughty by Nature graces the charts with their little ditty about infidelity.  But the last “P” in my “O.P.P.”  remake is “Poop.”  And I have discovered, much to my surprise, that I am NOT down with O.P.P.  Not by a long shot.  This comes as a great surprise, as I spend a good deal of time thinking about, writing about, and even producing my own, poop.  Apparently if the poop did not originate from someone exceptionally close to me, I am completely skeeved by its physical presence or pictorial representation.  I have found the limits of my poop tolerance.

A brief aside here about the difference between reading and seeing.  I am a wuss when it comes to horror films.  I went to see The Ring in the theater and I had to stay with relatives for a week because I feared, irrationally I know, that a half-decomposed girl with long stringy hair was going to crawl out of my television set and kill me.  I was twenty-eight when I saw the film; there was no excuse for my delusion.  During that same year I read a string of Stephen King and vampire novels that boasted a cast of characters every bit as menacing as the dead chic who liked to attack via TV.  So why can I sleep soundly after reading horror, but never after viewing it?  I have a theory. Reading is a very private and cerebral act that requires direct interaction.  The reader has to be an accomplice in the world-building or the illusion doesn’t work.  The reader therefore has some control over how powerfully the images become imprinted in her head.  A novel is also something digested over a longer stretch of time.  Movies are in your face, and the viewer has no control over the sharpness of the images.  Although you can diminish the psychological impact by watching images through the spaces of fingers cupped over your face.  This method prevented me from crapping my pants during The Ring.  Which brings me back to the point of this comparison: crap. 

I enjoy a good poop.  I enjoy a good poop story.  Tell me about something questionable you ate that made your turd electric green, and I will howl with laughter and share some of my own tales from the gastrointestinal trenches.  Your dog crapped the floor and you puked as you cleaned it up?  Hilarious!  Tell me more.  But… show me a picture of your electric green turd?  Now I can’t eat.  If I walk into a bathroom stall in a public restroom and encounter a stranger’s deposit simmering in the bowl?  Gag reflex.  Big time. 

The biggest O.P.P. challenge I’ve faced to date came last week while I was searching for other blogs about poop to see how other writers were “talking shit.”  (Yes.  They exist, and in larger numbers than you’d think.)  One man’s blog transformed me immediately into the proverbial old fogey; I even uttered an astonished “Oh My.”  If you’re brave and curious about your own gross out ceiling, check it out: http://thepoopblog.com/.  The man posts pictures of his shit and discusses them briefly.  I was completely disgusted.  Me, the woman who writes about my ass dilating to release a poop bomb with the girth of a soda can; me, the woman who gets up in public and relates poop stories to crowds at comedy clubs!

So, no.  I am not down with O.P.P. in the broadest sense.  I am Naughty by Naughty when it comes to a good story, but don’t make me see the movie.  And under NO circumstances do I ever want to see that shit live!


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Watch Some Shitty Good Standup

20 Jan

Jane cracks up the audience with some shit jokes and stories. Enjoy!


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Shitty Kitty

11 Jan

Is this the face of a shit terrorist?

My husband and I were enjoying an intimate dinner downstairs when all of a sudden our new kitty Kiki galloped through the upstairs hallway, flied down the stairs and came to a skidding halt in the kitchen. She looked nervously behind her to see if whatever was stalking her hadn’t followed. She appeared to have seen a ghost but she also looked a little guilty. We puzzled over our cat’s skittishness for just a few moments before the first whiff assaulted our noses. The smell was far worse than any pig farm or paper mill combined could ever produce, and our eyes instantly began to water and our noses began to run.

Since the cats have always been considered mine, I got the pleasure of investigating this nasal invader. I gagged as I climbed the stairs to the bonus room where the kitty litter box was stored. The smell just increased as I got closer. By the time I reached the litter box, the smell nearly knocked me over. I couldn’t believe this doodie of death had come out of a little cat’s ass. I quickly grabbed the pooper scooper, buried the smelly shit and grabbed some air freshener in a futile attempt at extinguishing the horrific stench. After being overpowered by the odor, I hurried back downstairs thinking there would be relief there. I found none. My husband had abandoned the house for the deck outside. I spotted him through the windows taking in deep breaths as he wiped his eyes.

I was determined to tough it out and get rid of the smell that had invaded our happy home, so I lit all of the candles in the house and sought out the creator of the stench. I found her cowering under the dining room table with her poop stink mingling with the smells of our once mouth watering meal. I cornered her and lifted her tail – sure enough there was a strip of the toxic sludge stuck to her tail. I quickly got some anti-bacterial wipes and began trying to extricate the shit from her fur. She fought me but I was able to pin her down while I cleaned her up. Finally I had to cut a large chunk out of her hair. I flushed the pile of wipes and hair down the toilet. Now that the menace had been contained and removed, I myself needed a shower. By the time I got out of the shower, the odor had dissipated and we thought life would return to normal. Silly us, thinking it was a one time deal.

Our sweet, simple, adorable Kiki has continued her shit bombs from hell for nearly 4 years now. The entire time she’s unloaded craps so foul that they send her fleeing before she gets a chance to cover them up. I’ve taken her to several vets who assure me that all this is normal and that there is nothing we can do but endure. So, that is what we do. We have a healthy stock of Neutra Air (it works!) and as soon as we hear her tear ass from the litter box room, we know to immediately go bury it before the smell engulfs the entire house. We’ve never thought about getting rid of her – she’s family. We love her, even with her shits that could be useful as biological weapons or a remedy for congested nasal passages. Now, what a minute, there’s an idea. I can see it now: Coming to a store near you, Shitty Kitty Nasal Punch brand nasal spray – Yeah, that’ll kill your cold.


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