Picture this: Today. "9:35." I'm in left-most stall of six in a vacant restroom. About to settle in for some serious Rodin action, someone else enters the room and occupies the stall next to mine, which, is an act of aggression the likes of which I cannot abide. Set tazers to STUN. SSGT VINDALOO BBQ REPORTING FOR DOODY!
THIS AGGRESSION WILL NOT STAND, MAN!
Showing posts with label Poop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poop. Show all posts
Thursday, June 5, 2014
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Workplace What-the-Fuckery: Poo Redux
"Gee thanks for not photographing your dump. I still haven't recovered after the last time you did that."
Wednesday, June 26, 2013
Shit My Husband Has Said To Me
Upon learning I ate something from Halal Guys while in NYC yesterday, my husband quipped, "So, I guess you ENJOY getting diarrhea?"
Disclaimer: No post-prandial diarrhea was experienced.
Disclaimer: No post-prandial diarrhea was experienced.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
No Good Can Ever Come From
This might as well be a companion piece to this previous post.
No good can ever come from the husband finding out about my (now, not-so-) secret stash of dog poop on the balcony*. He has been telling me, repeatedly, how I'm a psychopath, and how he anticipates his disembodied head to be in the freezer any day now.
*Full disclosure: Dog poop to be strafed in the area outside my balcony, to form a field of fecal land mines, to help thwart/repel the feral spawn of inattentive condo owners. The aforementioned spawn have a club house, basketball court, swimming pool, and playground all at their disposal. Where do they congregate to make their RUCKUS (up until 9 p.m., no less)? Yes. Outside my balcony, thus ensuring I can never sit out there to enjoy my balcony and the greater outdoors in relative peace and quite. My dog poop stash is a fecal fuck you.
End note: 6/26/13 Dog poop as a passive-aggressive tool works. At least in the short term. For once in the seven years I have lived in my condo, I was finally able to enjoy sitting out on my balcony, relaxing in a lounge chair, in peace and quiet.
No good can ever come from the husband finding out about my (now, not-so-) secret stash of dog poop on the balcony*. He has been telling me, repeatedly, how I'm a psychopath, and how he anticipates his disembodied head to be in the freezer any day now.
*Full disclosure: Dog poop to be strafed in the area outside my balcony, to form a field of fecal land mines, to help thwart/repel the feral spawn of inattentive condo owners. The aforementioned spawn have a club house, basketball court, swimming pool, and playground all at their disposal. Where do they congregate to make their RUCKUS (up until 9 p.m., no less)? Yes. Outside my balcony, thus ensuring I can never sit out there to enjoy my balcony and the greater outdoors in relative peace and quite. My dog poop stash is a fecal fuck you.
End note: 6/26/13 Dog poop as a passive-aggressive tool works. At least in the short term. For once in the seven years I have lived in my condo, I was finally able to enjoy sitting out on my balcony, relaxing in a lounge chair, in peace and quiet.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Shit I've Said To One of My Parents
(To my mother.)
"While sis is manually disimpacting your bowels is perhaps NOT the best time to inform her of how very unspecial she is."
Context: Mom felt compelled at that point in time to expound on how she has a distinctly different relationship with all three of us kids. "I" apparently am the "friend," my brother is the "baby," and my sister, well, "I just love you because you're my daughter." Yeah, just what every person with a fistful of someone ELSE'S feces just needs to know at that precise moment.
"While sis is manually disimpacting your bowels is perhaps NOT the best time to inform her of how very unspecial she is."
Context: Mom felt compelled at that point in time to expound on how she has a distinctly different relationship with all three of us kids. "I" apparently am the "friend," my brother is the "baby," and my sister, well, "I just love you because you're my daughter." Yeah, just what every person with a fistful of someone ELSE'S feces just needs to know at that precise moment.
Monday, May 1, 2006
Workplace What-The-Fuckery: The Shithouse (The Inaugural Edition)
YOU might be an asshole IF:
You have EITHER:
1. Emailed me a picture of your morning bowel movement (and emailed it to my WORK email address. And by "bowel movement" I mean precisely that: BEHOLD!!! IT IS SANS TP!!!!);
OR
2. Relentlessly called me AT WORK, on my cell, and texted me about how your fecal impaction was essentially holding you hostage (FOR SEVERAL DAYS, despite me giving you advice how to avoid such a predicament), and finally relent, and go to the hospital after TWO DAYS with a turd turtle head that refused to break off or go back in.
Yes, madams (YES! This involves two different people), you are certifiable assholes.
You have EITHER:
1. Emailed me a picture of your morning bowel movement (and emailed it to my WORK email address. And by "bowel movement" I mean precisely that: BEHOLD!!! IT IS SANS TP!!!!);
OR
2. Relentlessly called me AT WORK, on my cell, and texted me about how your fecal impaction was essentially holding you hostage (FOR SEVERAL DAYS, despite me giving you advice how to avoid such a predicament), and finally relent, and go to the hospital after TWO DAYS with a turd turtle head that refused to break off or go back in.
Yes, madams (YES! This involves two different people), you are certifiable assholes.
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