...so let's just say that I'm not at all enthusiastic about discussing this particular subject at all, okay? When Archie Bunker's toilet was flushed in the TV program
All In The Family, no one in my family thought it funny. Call me anal-retentive, see what I care.
But I met a woman, and she is a big fan of this website, and I am a very big fan of hers. In the interest of full disclosure, I'm rather fond of the ground upon which she walks.
She insisted that I peruse "PoopReport," as it was "funny." So, of course I had to slog through this site, and try and figure out if I had fallen tush over bouche in love with some sort of deviant or not.
So what is this thing, anyway? Some sort of Offal Orkut? A Fecal Friendster? A Gastric Google? So what if the person behind the counter at Starbucks is your roommate's friend's cousin's boyfriend's bosses' sister, and you both have used the same stall in the same public restroom?
Who cares?
Well, yes, some of it is VERY funny.
But it all seems to be... bathroom humor.
Anyway, on to the actual report. A gentleman never kisses and tells, so I will not reveal the city, the state, or any other names. Forgive me, but a lady's reputation is at stake here, as neither of us is exactly, ahhh... "unencumbered" just yet, if'n ya know what I mean. Not to worry, we're both working on that.
It is also crucial to note that this incident took place before she mentioned this website to me.
The scene is a suite in a small hotel of the exclusive "boutique"-type in the nicer part of a major US city. The bathroom is so retro; it would be cool if it were retro on purpose or in an ironic way, but the whole place, from the dark woodwork (apparently salvaged from a British men's club) to the furnishings (imported from an alternate universe where the Art Deco period took place under the ironfisted dictatorial rule of Laura Ashley) merely reminds me of the home I grew up in.
Okay, so here's the thing -- she's got a quick wit, she's a summa cum laude college graduate, she fires puns off faster than an AR-15 on full auto, she's clearly in the nosebleed percentiles as far as intelligence goes.
For the male readership, yeah, drop-dead fabulous.
A body that stops traffic.
Including low-flying air traffic.
A smile that can only be measured in megawatts.
A voice like a refugee from a Disney movie.
Eyes that could melt an entire ice rink in seconds.
Overall, a woman so far at the edge of the bell curve, she's a dot on the next page after the graph. Not just a keeper, a trophy.
But here's the strange thing: a woman who is very much a mature lady, always has perfect habits, one with all the class and breeding to not even take a FIRST glance when casually selecting the correct fork of three or four provided at the restaurant to eat her oysters, but I turn around while tying my tie to reply to a question she asks, and see her -- carrying on a conversation with me... while she... ummm... sits on the throne.
Wearing nothing but a smile.
Through a wide-open bathroom door.
The brain goes into high gear. Let's keep cool here. Maybe the door swung open on her -- not all doors are hung properly, maybe she is as surprised and embarrassed at this turn of both hinges and events as I am, so let's just pretend that the door is closed and turn back around like I didn't notice.
Now, it's not like I was seeing anything I had not seen before, as this was the morning after an evening that can only be described as "the most amazing night of my life to date" -- and I'm old enough to remember John Glenn and Roger Maris, the time long before the band the Dead Kennedys when none of the Kennedys were yet dead, and the Noon News with Edwin Newman. I've got t-shirts older than nearly all of you reading this.
So, being of a scientific bent, I later check the bathroom door. It latches with a smooth click, and stays closed. No matter, forget it -- anyone can neglect to pull a door fully closed.
Cut to the next morning. Same scenario, and there she is, again breathtaking in perfection, morning light shining off her hair, brushing her teeth, again with the bathroom door wide open. Again, sans clothing. As she heads for the toilet, I causally wander by and push the door closed as I pass.
So if she's so smart, why the HECK can't she figure out how to use the DOORKNOB on the bathroom door? Doorknobs are a mystery to my dog, too, but my dog is happy to DRINK from the toilet, and thinks that a fun game is to chase a thrown stick for an hour.
I don't say anything, of course, but it nags at me.
For weeks afterwards.
Some sort of exhibitionist?
Born in the proverbial barn?
Raised by wolves, perhaps?
Lost her prudent sense of modesty in a highly unusual industrial accident involving an electric toothbrush and a 200 GeV/m positron collider?
But this website explains all. To me, "colon" is the plural of "semi-colon," but to you folks the colon is the subject of intensive study, humor, and the basis for a social connection.
It's not perversion, it's not exhibitionism, it's just an uninhibited nature unknown to us quiet and profoundly shy types who are even introspective about retrospection.
She's worth it.
I'll adjust.
Writing this is Step One.
When she reads it, she'll know who this is, and she'll smile. 'Cause she maybe is not quite sure what I think about all this.
And if YOU find this, and you know who you are, let me say: "Mon petit chou, je t'aime."