Tag Archives: poop

Guest Blog from Wendy Parker

15 Jul

“…I became certain I would drown in a Minnesota toilet.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ever have your posterior doused by an overly eager public toilet? Ever fear the EF5 vortex of those suckers will rip out your colon?  Guest blogger Wendy Parker understands.

Click on the link below and read Wendy’s hilarious rant on “Automatic Hell” in which she recounts the harrowing tale of a public loo with sinister sensor.

http://www.thegeorgeandwendyshow.com/91043352

Listen to Jane’s hilarious interview on the Verbal Oragami radio show

15 Apr

From the Verbal Origami website: DK takes us into uncharted waters, we literally go to the shitter. That’s right tonight we bring in Jane Gari one of the authors of Flush This Book, a book all about bodily malfunctions. It’s a spirited look into one of life’s seldom talked about, but truly necessary functions, flatulence and bowel movements. First the host and author exchange some funny stories then the phone lines light up! Tonight its DK at the out house, not a water cooler. Weird news, funny parodies and prank calls are in the show as always. More news on the much speculated up and coming Coast to Coast Co-host search.

Listen here:

Verbal Origami Radio Show – prerecorded

 

Trick or Turd

21 Oct

how pumpkin pie is really made...One of the joys of having kids is developing your own holiday traditions with them.  My favorite Halloween tradition we enjoy with her is taking her to the Riverbanks Zoo for an event festively dubbed “Boo at the Zoo.” This year my four-year-old Phoebe decided to go as a rainbow fairy.  While she danced to Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” I tried to shake off the creepiness of a hundred little kids dancing while Michael Jackson was singing by remembering the first time we came to Boo at the Zoo with her.

She was Yoda that year, and a young Jedi-in training she was.  Trick-or-treating didn’t do anything for her yet, as she was still mastering that toddler gait that looks oddly similar to the wobble of a drunken dwarf.  As it turns out, that same wobble also passes for incredible choreography if observed in a certain context.

Our little Yoda was drawn to the DJ booth and the disco lights.  “The Monster Mash,” the “One-Eyed One-Horned Flying Purple People Eater.”  She was a dancing machine.  My husband and I rallied around little Phoebe and clapped for her as only first-time parents stupefied by their own child’s cuteness can.  We looked like idiots and we didn’t care.  These were Kodak moments Damnit!  Then “Thriller” came on.  She was amazing.  She was lifting moves from the classic video like she’d been rehearsing it for all of her very short life.  Picture a sixteen-month-old in a deep horse-riding stance, bobbing her head, arms akimbo, perfecting executing the dance moves of the King of Pop and his legion of pop-locking zombies.

I was proud in this moment.  I thought to myself, “she’s going to go pro one day.”

And then we smelled it.  Subtle, at first.  But then a pungent punch in the face.

“Do you smell shit?” my husband shouted in my ear above the din of the Vincent Price solo.

I did.

Phoebe wasn’t a dancing genius.  She had just filled her diaper past capacity.  For a second I wondered if the choreographer told the dancers on the Thriller set to pretend there was an enormous dump in their pants.  But only for a second.  Everyone within a five yard radius of Yoda could smell that the Force was strong with her.

It was cold that night, and it took several minutes to peel the layers of sweaters and tights that shielded the Yoda costume from the poop, and poop there was.  Loads.  It was of the explosive variety that leaps from a diaper at high velocity, rides up a child’s neck and puddles in a funky sludge in the feet of socks.  It defied gravity and logic. Poor little Yoda screamed throughout the ordeal.  I mustered up some serious willpower to refrain from crying myself.  I used up every baby wipe and tissue in my possession to wipe the slime from my baby.  Her tights, her t-shirt and her sweater were all relegated to the trash, may they rest in peace.

It took me so long to clean her up and find my husband again on the dance floor that the DJ was playing “Thriller” again.  I guess there are only so many Halloween songs out there semi-appropriate for family-friendly events.  Despite the diaper-change from Hell, I still burst out laughing as Jackson delivered the first lines of the song:

“It’s close to midnight, and something evil’s lurkin’ in the dark.”

No kidding.  That was some evil, other-worldly shit.

The Messy Side of Medicine

3 Apr

A familiar scene in my family’s life: my husband, daughter and I are out at a restaurant with my father and stepmother. The bill arrives and my husband and I attempt to brandish some cash or a credit card.  My father, without making eye contact, grips the billfold and draws it to his chest slowly. 

“Thank you,” we say.

My father grins, almost slyly, and never volleys a “you’re welcome” but an ominous, “Your time will come.” 

He knows what he’s talking about.   His parents certainly gave him and his siblings a run for their money. I remember the account of my grandfather taking a whiz on a group of lunch trays at the nursing home and wince.  It could happen to the best of us, so we might as well grow a sense of humor about it now. 

Being a caregiver is one of the hardest jobs in the world and most of us will brandish this title, whether it’s for our children, our parents or both.  Bodily functions, and malfunctions, are just par for the course.  No one understands this as well as medical personnel. 

During my uncle’s ER rotation in medical school, he asked an older gentleman for a ‘specimen,’ assuming the man would understand, given the dimensions of the beaker he was handed, that my uncle could only mean urine.  The poor gentleman, determined not to disappoint, proceeded to take a dump into the beaker intended to collect just a few milliliters of pee.  The mechanics of exactly how the poor schmuck managed it are still a mystery to my uncle, but the thumb prints in the top layer of poop left some clues. 

One of my best friends is a radiology technician.  I could write an entirely separate blog entry about the people she has x-rayed who claimed they had no idea how various items became lodged in their rectums.  Her contribution to tales of bodily malfunctions, however, is her experience with administering barium enemas. (And I thought not being able to hold my liquor was a problem.) Apparently both patients and medical personnel equally dread hearing the phrase “Uh-oh.”  For my trooper of a friend, “uh-oh,” on many occasions, has ushered in a literal whirlwind of shit that decorated the walls, ceiling and floor like Jackson Pollack on an acid binge.  

Enemas are rare in labor and delivery units these days, but one veteran nurse was happy to recount the hilarity of a recent exception to the rule.  A teenager came to the hospital at 28 weeks complaining of severe abdominal pains, but the OB couldn’t gain access. The entrance was blocked by impacted poo that ballooned against the vaginal wall, effectively sealing it shut.  The delivery from the backdoor had to precede any future deliveries from any other entrances or exits.

After the veteran nurse gave her an enema, the poor girl excused herself to the delivery room’s bathroom where she gave birth to a six-pound block of shit.  After moving the girl to another room to avoid further humiliation, the nurses gathered around the toilet to marvel at the massive hunk of crap.  Flushing was futile, so they entertained themselves by playing a prank on a freshman janitor.  Shortly thereafter, they were reprimanded for their supposed immaturity by the supervising nurse.  The nurses struggled to suppress their laughter as their superior wrestled the shit into a biohazard bag.  (For the entire story please visit http://www.pregnancy.org/bulletinboards/showthread.php?p=8214947.  Trust me.  It is worth it.)

At another hospital, a nurse working the nightshift tried to help a disoriented patient with diarrhea make it to the toilet on time at 1:30 in the morning.  The patient insisted on privacy, which the nurse granted begrudgingly, leaving the door open a crack while standing sentinel. Upon hearing the woman utter the dreaded “Uh-oh” distress signal, the nurse opened the door and was greeted by the most difficult test of her gag reflex in her career.  The patient had neglected to drop her drawers and was filling them past maximum capacity while simultaneously attempting to shimmy them off her already soiled behind.  Before completing a request for the patient to stop her efforts, the poor nurse was greeted by a loaded pair of panties just recently freed from the patient’s heel that hurdled towards her face like an obscene asteroid.  She was covered in liquid turd paint.  (To read the whole story, or to purchase the hilarious book from which it is excerpted, visit http://www.webook.com/project/Toxic-Poop-Stories-from-the-Other-Side-of-the-Bedpan)

God bless the laymen, doctors, nurses and nurse’s aids who take the pitfalls of care-giving in stride.  And God bless them for sharing their stories so we can all enjoy the best of all medicine: laughter.

For additional hilarious stories from nurses who’ve seen it all check out http://allnurses.com/nursing-humor-share

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