My wife's grandfather told an interesting story over breakfast the morning after Thanksgiving. I go out to northern California to be with her family ever year, and it's always good to see grandpa. He is well into his 80's, fought in World War II, and he is one of the only guys still around who can say they were at Normandy. He is also the proud owner of one of the most impressive antique weapons collections known to man. As a matter of fact, Charlie Watts once came over to his house to buy one of his swords. Grandpa isn't a fan of rock music so he wasn't as excited about that visit as I would have been. All he remembers about Charlie is how dirty his fingernails were.
Anyway, grandpa is offered bacon and said that he better not after he had bacon with the family a year ago and drove home. Apparently the bacon was causing a serious need to get to the bathroom for the last few miles of his ride (he still drives!), and in his rush to get to the toilet upon opening the door, he accidentally kicked the trip wire he had set up and released tear gas all over him and all through out the house. Grandpa is big on keeping his home and the weapons collection tightly secured and evidently engineered the whole trip wire tear gas thing. He said that he couldn't leave the house because he still had that urgent call from nature, and he then had to sit there and finish his business, just enduring the pain with his eyes burning. He truly is from the "Greatest Generation." I would have cried and screamed loud enough for all my neighbors to hear, and they would all step outside to see what the commotion was all about just in time to see me pooping the bushes. And still crying.
What is funny is that Mrs. Noisewater's dad, grandpa's step-son, was quick to point out that this wasn't the first time that grandpa had set off his own tear gas bomb upon himself. Maybe he has an immunity built up so that he can fight off a would be intruder through the haze and eye burning? Who knows.
In any event, here's hoping your next "movement" is in a cozy and comfortable spot free of any chemical weaponry.
Believe it or not, I have encountered all of these in just the last couple of days.
1. A guy two days ago playing "Candy Crush" on his phone while on the crapper. The fact that he left the sound on incredibly loud makes me think that this was an older guy who didn't know how to turn the sound off of his very own phone that he carries around every day. I actually went back to my locker on the other side of the locker room and still heard this guy racking up points, and at that point I had to laugh.
2. A guy tonight singing in the shower. This guy wasn't just casually singing or humming; he was belting it out, putting all his emotions into it, and it still wasn't very good. It was a soul song along the lines of John Legend, and it sucked.
No clue what's happening here, but it comes up on Google Images if you search "John Legend + Shower."
3. When you wipe your face hard with the gym towel and it nearly scrapes off a layer of skin, which damn near happened to me yesterday. One needs to remember to dab the sweat off the face because a hard wipe could leave you looking like Freddy Krueger.
Freddy Fitness? Shasher-'robics? Yes!!!!!!
4. Dude today taking selfies with his shirt off in the locker room. Your physique is very impressive, and I'm sure it's important to you to chart your progress - but that is a glamor shot that you should be doing at home.
And perhaps I'm just tired of these dudes twice my age in way better shape
That's all I got for now, Seven Readers. Now, if you go to the gym and play "Candy Crush" on the dumper, sing in the shower, wipe your skin off your face with a towel, and take a locker room selfie to cap it off, you're off my blog roll, tough guy. And I mean that. : )
I went for a run today, and things were going well for the first half. Then, with about a sixth of the way to go, I felt something. A feeling that can best be summed up by saying:
"When you're sittin' in your Chevy, and you feel something heavy - Diarrhea cha cha cha. Diarrhea cha cha cha."
I immediately started walking because I feared that if I kept running I might . . .
"When you're slidin' into first, and you feel something burst - Diarrhea cha cha cha. Diarrhea cha cha cha."
I walked, quickly, trying to focus on getting home in a timely fashion and keeping the beast in the cage. You ever have to talk yourself down and concentrate like that? It's quite the challenge, especially when Flip Wilson is right at that back door.* Everything had to be controlled down to a science at that point, even what song I was listening to, as some songs would aggravate my anus, somehow. At one point I got the shivers, like the cold sweats. That's when you're know that you're in some deep shit, so to speak. Believe it or not, there was a point where I considered ducking into an alley and having a poo, not unlike Smokey in Friday.
As I was walking through the final alley, the magic alley where a warehouse always throws away good stuff, I saw a pair of perfectly good bar stools, and I need some for an upcoming party. Despite having a stool problem of my own, I grabbed those two bar stools and continued on that home stretch. Then I had the phenomenon where your butt says, "Oh, sweet, we're close to home, so I can open the flood gates and start the process," and then your brain has to say, "No, you idiot! We're not there yet! Are you crazy? We're going to shit ourselves if we do that!"
Slamming the bar stools on my porch, I opened the door and left it open** - no time to be closing things, as that's not a step that brings me any closer to that bowl. You know when you have to crap so bad that you know exactly what that poo is going to be like?*** I could just tell that this one was going to be hot and splattery, and it was going to make my butt burn because I drank too much coffee, a protein shake, and a quiche. Quiche! What was I thinking? I'm lactose intolerant, and plus it had goat cheese in it. Oh, and I had somewhere in the neighborhood of a thousand beers the night before.
Well, I was exactly right about it being a bad, bad scene on the pot. For the all important shower, I had to do that maneuver where I turn the water temperature down to a moderately cold setting and cool off the old "culo." I even had that rare instance where your body is so screwed up from the squirts that your balls pull way up into a tight little undercarriage.
I mark down what workouts I do on my calendar, and I think on this day I'll have to document "5/6 of my nine mile run due to a Code Brown." __________________________ *I know that's a bit of a racist phrase, but it's just too funny. For some reason, saying "taking the Cosby Kids to the pool" is more racist to me because it's just overused. Flip Wilson is so damn random and funny, that's it's somehow okay for me to say it, despite the fact that I'm insanely liberal. **Oh shit. I think it's still open. ***You don't have to actually answer any of these questions.
Some mornings I listen to these DJ's in Chicago named Sherman and Tingle because they're funny, and they have a guy named Paul the Perv who gives me the traffic times in a Buffalo Bill voice from Silence of the Lambs. The other day, for whatever reason, Sherman, or maybe it was Tingle, was saying that every holiday his grandma takes a dump in the bathroom and stinks it up to all hell. What killed me about it was how he said it: "She goes in there and just destroys!"
That's a great way to say it, and the doctor urges you to use that word in that sense by the end of the week.
I was watching something about competitive eating with two guys wolfing down 20 White Castle burgers a piece, and I was wondering what their poos must be like after a showing like that. I mean, let alone the fact that even a small amount of White Castle will have you on the can for an hour, but 20 of them?
I then did some research about the sad, sad aftermath of competitive eating that you don't hear about, but you'll hear about it here at The Gancer . . .
According to PoopReport.com, yes there is such a site, Carson "Collard Green" Hughes, after putting down two and one half pounds of collard greens in 17.5 seconds, had a quite an experience that I'll share with you. Don't read this if you're easily grossed out, but if not, get a "load" of this because it's damn funny:
"Around 10:00 that night, the end result occurred," Hughes explained. "All those collards that went in had to come out. What a fast turn-around time! I guess roughage can speed things up a bit. For me, the collards acted like an internal scrub brush -- they cleaned me out from one end to the other. My stomach began rumbling with that all-knowing feeling that I must get to the bathroom quick. Once there, down came the pants and a big plop on the seat, and I was ready. Boy, just in time, because the explosion of a lifetime occurred. It could be compared to an atom bomb, but it was dark green in color -- soft, hard, and runny. A blend of stool. Some of it ended up on the sides of the bowl. Some in the back of the bowl. But most of it sunk to the bottom of the bowl when it hit the water. There were a few floaters that looked like whipped green mousse topping and were about the size of a moon pie. The level of the water rose about two inches."
Wow. Sounds messy! But wait, there's more? You may be thinking to yourself, "he paints quite a picture, but what did it smell like?" Well . . .
"My industrial-size fan in the master bedroom was no match for the fallout. The smell radiated out of the bathroom and right into the hallway and bedroom. It was not a pleasant smell. Lysol could not put a dent in this foul evil green monster that rested in the bottom of the bowl. After several flushes and several hours of spraying, it was finally tolerable. Good thing my wife was at work."
So, evidently if you're looking to get into competitive eating, you better set some time aside for the "aftermath," as it's quite an endeavor. Better have a couple magazines in the old shit house. And a mop. And two or three cans of Lysol. And . . . Actually, Dr. Kenneth is recommending right now that you just never, ever get into competitive eating.
Anyway, grandpa is offered bacon and said that he better not after he had bacon with the family a year ago and drove home. Apparently the bacon was causing a serious need to get to the bathroom for the last few miles of his ride (he still drives!), and in his rush to get to the toilet upon opening the door, he accidentally kicked the trip wire he had set up and released tear gas all over him and all through out the house. Grandpa is big on keeping his home and the weapons collection tightly secured and evidently engineered the whole trip wire tear gas thing. He said that he couldn't leave the house because he still had that urgent call from nature, and he then had to sit there and finish his business, just enduring the pain with his eyes burning. He truly is from the "Greatest Generation." I would have cried and screamed loud enough for all my neighbors to hear, and they would all step outside to see what the commotion was all about just in time to see me pooping the bushes. And still crying.
