My wife and I were hanging out over her brother’s house not too long ago. We were just chillin’ in the living room while his wife was giving their one-year old kid a bath. Before she could strap a diaper to his ass, though, he ran out of the bathroom, ambled over to a corner of the living room, squatted, grunted, and took a tremendous crap on the carpet. (Just like Grandma used to!)
We all dashed to the kitchen to get some paper towels, yet, when we came back, the poop had mysteriously disappeared. Where did it go? get sucked into another dimension? Retract back up his ass? We were all mystified.
Right next to the spot where the crap had been was the family dog, a black Labrador, licking his chops. Which was puzzling, until it suddenly dawned on us: the pooch had eaten the crap.
Now, I never in a bajillion years would have expected a dog to go up to a steamy, stinking fresh pile and think, “OK! Chow time!” Rosie O’ Donnell, maybe, but a dog? Never.
Stunned at the realization of what happened, I promptly sat down. And the dog promptly came over and started licking my face with his poopy-smelling tongue.
Which was great. Because, as we all know, there’s nothing better than getting a dog slobber / fecal matter mixture slathered directly on your face.
You know what’s kooky? Going to the bathroom in public. I don’t mean pooping out in the open in front of everybody, because that’s just gay. No, I’m talking about using those elegant single-person bathrooms like you find in most gas stations. I find that using one is kooky because, when I use one and lock the door so I can do my business in privacy, there’s always some other person trying to get in the bathroom. And I don’t mean just trying to twist the handle once and stopping immediately because the door is obviously locked. I’m talking about those crackheads that continue to try to play with the handle a while past when it should be apparent to all that the room is in use.
I usually make loud, throat-clearing noises in such cases, but the geniuses on the other side invariably start knocking on the door and ask, “is somebody in there?” To which I usually reply, “No, it’s just me, the toilet. I’ve got some phlegm, and that’s why I’m clearing my throat. Also, there’s some guy who’s pooping in my mouth.”
Not sure why, but saying that usually drives them away.
I used to work part time at a Home Depot in the plumbing department. One time, a customer came up to me apparently looking to purchase a bidet – only he couldn’t remember that it was called a bidet. “I’m looking for something that goes in your bathroom,” he explained in a Texas drawl, “but I forget what it’s called.” Then, his eyes lighting up, he added, “It’s sort of like an ass fountain.”
Which is actually the perfect way to describe a bidet. As a matter of fact, I say that the bidet should be officially re-named “the ass fountain”. I think sales of it would skyrocket. Hell, I’d probably even buy one myself.
Recently, I was at home watching some new fluff on Entertainment Tonight, when all of a sudden, I felt something crawling on my neck(!) This obviously creeped me out, and my left hand immediately flew up to grab the offending neck-crawler. Once I felt it in my hand, I triumphantly started to pull it towards my face so I could have a better look at it.
Only I couldn’t bring it to my face.
Turns out what had been “crawling” on my neck turned out to be the inside tag of my shirt.
Not too long ago, New York City was in the running to host the Olympics, and Mayor Mike Bloomberg had been planning to erect an Olympic Village in Harlem. I was thinking that it’s too bad that this didn’t take place, because they probably could have had some interesting exhibition sports, such as synchronized carjacking, say, or women’s freestyle crack smoking (no doubt Marion Barry would’ve dressed in drag to compete in that one).
