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 The New Tocqueville: Pooping In SuburbiaPosted 02.12.2003 by BRoxAnnette (10)
My dad, a bindery operator for a printing company, worked 12-hour days and had a 30-minute drive each way. He was frustrated with carpooling because he was always catching some kind of bug from the other drivers. When he did drive, he would feel like passing out from exhaustion after the long day at work, not to mention his fear of accidents on the busy icy freeway. When he did come home, about ready to drop, my mom would rant and rave about the next door neighbor's dog, which was always leaving big steamy piles of soft serve in our yard.
As the days wore on, the anger grew. Out of desperation, they made a quick decision and put our house of 14 years house on the market. It sold in three days. About a month and a half later, we left our cute and cozy home. We had been living in a neighborhood known for rich old farts that didn't spend a dime, welfare mamas, alcoholics, drug dealers, unattended children running wild in the street, and immigrant Mexicans. Forced to leave my habitat -- my home! -- we settled into rich suburbia. Now, instead of a house, we had a town home, sandwiched between others that looked all the same. A lot of the time when my mom drove by, she'd pass it, thinking it was the wrong So here I am, missing my precious 'hood, trying to get used to looking at arrogant, hoity-toity white-collared folks; women wearing pointy dress boots and geeky men wearing high-water slacks with big white shoes -- people who are health freaks, and very over-protective of their children. Now I don't mean just simple diet and exercise freaks -- I mean they go for the full enchilada. Jogging in almost subzero temperature with heart/pulse monitors attached. Wearing an entire spandex biker outfit when jogging or biking. One time I seen a guy running with ski poles... I almost shit my pants laughing. The thing that struck me the most were the cars they drove. I came from looking at beat-up woody family station wagons -- if there was a nice car in my town, we'd assume they were either old or drug dealers. But here in Pleasantville, there were BMWs, Mercedes', and one time I saw a Hummer. I asked my mom what the hell that was, and she said it was a vehicle that could go underwater. Now who in the hell would need something like that? They even talked different than our blue-collared folks. Instead of hearing "$@%&$", we heard, "oh my, that is just splended." With all these changes going on, and all the emotions I was experiencing, I was a mental mess. They say that your stomach is like a second brain -- I now believe that's true. My stomach changed. Here in suburbia, I could no longer drop a normal, healthy shit. The restaurants here were terrible -- I'd either throw up or take a quick, greasy country splat after eating. During the day I would let out hard bite-sized hamster pellets. I never felt like I was done -- it was always like I had a turd hanging in my ass that wouldn't come out. Or diarrhea. It always seemed to hit me when I was out shopping. I would go out of my way to walk a block from the strip mall to blow ass in the Arby's that had single bathrooms -- I need my privacy. Pizza was a big no-no. My mom and I went to eat at one of those chain pizza places. We ordered a Canadian Bacon pizza with pineapple. It was gross -- the crust was thin and soggy. I mean, you could bend this pizza in fours and it wouldn't break. I should've known better, but I was hungry, so I wolfed it down. As we were walking out the door, I suddenly felt like the big blueberry chick from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I am medium-sized, but I felt like I gained an extra gut or two. I thought I could fart to get the bloating down, so I tried, and this liquid shit came flying out like a damn rocket taking off, soaking my pants, running down my thighs. I didn't say anything to my mom about it. We hopped into the car, and got lucky as I sat down on the leather interior -- it didn't stink. When we got home I got up and the seat was wet from my nasty ass. She asked me what happened and I had to tell her. It's been six months since we moved. It's so bad that I lost 15 pounds without even trying, because my smoking and my shot nerves make me throw up after I eat. I don't get diarrhea any more, but I can barely shit. I don't know what my problem is, but I hope it goes away soon. I miss my old neighborhood. -- BRoxAnnette Post new comment
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