How, pray tell, AC, are "Condoms are more convenient"? Have you ever tried to shit in one of those things? Christ, it's tough enough to get Clark Kent into his Superman costume, but squeeze a turd of gargantuan proportions into one is impossible.
_______
Yo quiero Taco Bell.

Merc, Dude, you pop zits, not hemmies, with a pair of needle nose pliers. That way you can really get the blood and pus on the bathroom mirror and not on the bath mat.

Hemmies have to be cauterized. I recommend that you get a good, old-fashioned abortion tool (aka a "turd chopper" around these parts) and then put it over the open flame of your stove. While the ass poker is heating up, get some grain alcohol and use that to disinfect your butthole. When the tool is red hot, grab it quickly from the stove and apply to the offending hemmie. Within a split second, I guarantee you that hemmie will be completed forgotten.

Note, do not fart while the iron is nearing your butthole as you wouldn't want a flame out. For similar reasons, you might want to let the antiseptic alcohol evaporate some before the actual cauterization.

To help with the post-cauterization healing process, I would suggest that you liberally and vigorousl scrub your butt with Iodine after every bowel movement for the next two weeks at least. This will help prevent post-surgical infections.

Seriously, Doniker, if you're that concerned about it, you should see an ass doc. That's why they exist. Conventional wisdom would seem to be to have these issues addressed earlier rather than later, if not for your health, then for your peace of mind.

I wish you good health, Doniker. And I truly hope it's nothing serious.
_______
Yo quiero Taco Bell.

I'll bet, Daphne, that if you look closely at his campaign finances, you'll find that he's received large campaign donations from the AwTAA (Asswipe Trade Association of America).
_______
Yo quiero Taco Bell.

I'm changing the environment.

Ask me how!
_______
Yo quiero Taco Bell.

How precious, TB. Da wittle monkey wikes you.

Now you can claim that you have first-hand knowledge of the origins of the express "spank the monkey".
_______
Yo quiero Taco Bell.

Knowing the Pythagorean Theorem, knowing the difference between a particle and a participle and knowing the significance of the Treaty of Tortedillas are all irrelevant if you don't know how to properly wipe your cheney.

The latter is shit. The former are shinola. It is easier to get a job without knowing the former than it is without knowing the latter.
_______
Yo quiero Taco Bell.

I agree that the story was well-written. And I didn't particularly care for the description of foie gras. Although I'm sure that I'd be repulsed by the process of turning a cow into ground beef, that's not going to stop me from eating -- no, enjoying -- a good hamburger. (For the record, I don't like veal though, but not for humanitarian reasons.)

Here's the part that gets me. Steff got liquored up, got smote with the shit hammer, then got behind the wheel of his rental car and hauled ass from downtown to the 'burbs just so that he could take a dump in a warm, clean, friendly place.

I hate to rain on the party, but if Steff had lost control of his car because he was busy concentrating on his quivering ass and driven through a crowded bus stop, I don't think that we would be quite so humored.

Maybe I'm making something out of nothing. And if so, I apologize. All the same, I'm glad that I got to read about this on the front page of PR instead of CNN.
_______
Yo quiero Taco Bell.

I think that you're all hitting on something (other than a bong or a crack pipe). But I don't think that this picture is about constipation or relief or just an image of the artist. At first glance, it looks like a whimsical portrait. This painting, however, has some very interesting and subtle composition elements.

First, this is not a self-portrait, although the artist may be the subject on the crapper. This picture does more than just capture the image of the subject, who may well be the artist. It tells a story with its composition. It is an exchange between the subject and the artist which has been caught at its seminal moment, as all great stills do.

Consider the subject. The affect of the subject is not flat, as is typical with a portrait. Clearly, the subject is annoyed. The facial expression tells us that with the slight frown. The subject isn't straining as if in mid-crap as is evident by lack of tension in the muscles either in the face or on the well-defined left leg. Notice also that the head is resting on the right arm, the left hand is sagging between the legs and the back is relaxed as well.

Interestingly, there is no flattening of the subject's left thigh and cheek, as there would be if they were resting on the toilet seat. So the left buttock is slightly lifted. This could be because the subject is farting, or because the subject has something stuck to his butthole that he doesn't want squeezed between his cheeks.

Next, consider the artist's perspective. The artist is far enough away that he has the subject entirely within is his/her line of sight but not so far as to be able to see the door or sink or bathtub. From this, the artist is probably within 5 feet.

The subject is also looking directly at the artist. The subject's eyes are cast upward at just about the same angle as if they were looking at somebody standing up. So it would seem that the subject is annoyed with the artist and trying to communicate something. But why and what?

Note that the light source seems to emanate from behind, above and to the right of the artist, as is evidenced by the cast of the shadow of the subject, which is below and slightly forward of the subject. Look at how the subject's shadow is casting down and towards the front. Couple this with the darkness of the wall immediately behind the subject as if the light is flowing along that wall, not at it, as if the light source were wall mounted. Furthermore, because the shadows are so clearly defined, this can't be sun light streaming in through a window. These kinds of shadows are produced by incandescent lighting that is relatively close.

In terms of composition, there is nothing but the subject (striking a classic "thinker" pose), the crapper, the floor and the walls. Absent are the other elements of a bathroom: a sink, mirror, lights, door and asswipe. Yet these elements are always present in even the most austere household bathrooms.

It would seem then that all of these elements are probably behind the artist, just beyond his or her peripheral vision. It would be reasonable as well, to think that the artist is probably standing in front of the sink with the light bar above. The artist is turned towards the subject, staring at him directly and not askance.

The subject's annoyance, the lighting, the artist's direct gaze at the subject and the lack of other bathroom amenities can only add up to one thing. The subject has summoned the artist to hand him the roll of asswipe. The artist has, instead, pulled out his canvas and started painting. This annoys the subject, whose gaze pleads to the artist, "Dude, just put down the brush and pass me the damn TP."

(Note: Because the of location of the seat relative to the dark wall, there is no tank on that toilet, nor is there one of those high pressure water lines for tankless toilets. How they're ever going to remove excrement from that toilet pedestal is beyond me.)
_______
Yeah, I definitely over-thought this one.

Toilets have lids...

(1) ...because turds like their privacy too.

(2) ... so that the bogyman doesn't escape from the bog.

(3) ...so that people who have waited 5 minutes too long have one more excruciating detail to add to their poop report.

(4) ...in order to torment those poor hung-over souls the morning after a long night of worshipping the Budweiser and Taco Bell gawds.

(5) ... so that cartoon toilets have mouths for those silly toilet bowl cleaner commercials.

(6) ... so that the toilet bowl won't feel jealous of the toilet tank.

(7) ...so that the practical joker's object of affection won't see the celophane wrapped over the toilet bowl.

(8) ...so that the Wisdom of Ages won't escape from the Great White Oracle.

(9) ...so that made-for-TV producers have one more silly sight gag to add to their umpteenth remake of the Poseidon Adventure.

(10) ...so that T-Rex has a crunchy side dish to go with his main course of lawyer.

(11) ...so that dogs won't drink from the porcelain water bowl.

(12) ...so that defense contractors can charge the federal government an additional $6000 for their already over-priced bombers.

(13) ...so that we have something to talk about on PR besides P.

(14) ...because Thomas Crapper's daddy was always telling his noisy, wise-assed son to "put a lid on it already".
_______
Yo quiero Taco Bell.

In other news tonight, a startling drama unfolded on I-5 this evening. At approximately 5:10 this afternoon, 3SitW and Max of Long Beach went into labor after dining at Pedro's Tacos. Stuck in rush hour traffic, both expectant parents were seen leaning from the windows screaming in order to move vehicles from the rush hour gridlock. But their efforts were too little and too late. When just minutes from the family home, baby Brownie was delivered in the front seat of the car on the camel colored leather.

A passing motorist stopped to assist the new parents and had this to report. "I had just gotten on to the interstate when I heard this screaming and yelling and something about a baby. As a registered nurse, I felt it was my duty to help. So I followed the car down the exit ramp, where I saw the driver flailing his arms and the passenger lean back against the seat and arch their stomach into the air in an obvious painful contraction. I rushed to their car but the baby had come by that time."

"I had forgotten what Obstetrics was like. I was going to offer some help but the smell was repelling. It was everything I could do to pull myself back to my car and get the hell out of there."

At last report, baby Brownie and parents are doing fine. Their car, however, was a total loss.
_______
Yo quiero Taco Bell.

Assuming that I haven't already emptied my load, fart as loudly as possible. I think that's the natural reaction.

However, depending on the mood...

(1) Start rocking rhythmically back and forth. After about 15 seconds or so, start humming the Marine Corps anthem.

(2) Pretend that he's having the conversation with me.

(3) Dial my answering machine at home and say stuff like "Okay, Massoud, I put the box cutters in the airplane's bathroom just like you instructed. When do I get my $10,000?"

(4) If there's only one big poo left in me, start the countdown at "T-30 seconds." At "T-10" add something witty like "Commencing primary ignition." At the appropriate time, bear down in order to make the biggest splash possible. Jump up just a little bit as the turd rocket hits the water, then loudly state "Houston, we have Lift Off!"

(5) If there's going to be hurd of turdlets or maybe some Hershey squirts, hum the "1812 Overture" and let fly at the appropriate moments.

(6) Squeal loudly, "Oh, contraction!" Pant loudly and quickly three times then make a loud bearing down noise. Periodically state "Must remember what they taught me in Lamaze class."

(7) Beg out "Oh, gawd, not the Ha-a-ben-n- eros-s-s-s-s."

(8) Take shirt off and hang over common divider wall. Follow this with T-shirt. Take shoes off. Take socks off and hang over common divider. If dorkboy still hasn't vacated, loudly snap belt out of belt loops.

(9) Make loud rustling noises with backpack, followed by much lip-smacking and yummy noises. Belch, if possible. Ask the other guy "Hey, buddy, you want some? The missus makes a mean beef burrito."

(10) Quickly finish business, clean up and dress, wash and dry hands, then turn on all of the water faucets full blast and walk out. If you're really into terrorism, throw a paper towel into each sink first.
_______
Yo quiero Taco Bell.

This will never do. You need to think like a bureaucrat in order to appreciate the possibilities. First, get some third worlder to stand by the door and check ID. Make sure that everybody entering the bathroom is either an employee or a ticketed passenger. Install metal detectors and x-ray machines. And, of course, make them take their shoes off before entering. Don't forget to add an extra $11 per ticket for administration of this new safety protocol.

How about having everybody fill out a form before entering stating that they will not tap their feet on the floor while setting on the turder? Then the patrons could at least wipe their ass with their copy of the signed form, saving the taxpayers a bundle on TP.
_______
Yo quiero Taco Bell.

Nah. It has to be Phillip. Can't you see that cheek-spreading stance? He's got is left foot firmly planted on the ground, lifted his right heel and twisted his body. Notice that the hands go to the back to be clasped in order to expand the abdomen instead of the front (see Charles) where they are more naturally and easily clasped.

I had a book for many years titled "Who Farted Now?" There was a black and white photo of Charles and Di. An obviously straining Di was in the foreground with her famous forced smile and Charles just behind her, leaning away with his eyes rolled up into the back of his head. Absolutely hysterical.
_______
Gawd Save the Queen!

"Wow. I don't think I've ever smelled that in a red."

Farting permeates our entire existence. It's the elephant in the room that nobody wants to talk about. A perfect example is the elevator. Have you ever been on a crowded elevator when somebody erroneously thought that they could slip out an SBD? Now, nobody confronts anybody else because of the concept of plausible deniability. In a world where farts took on color, this would not be possible.

Our automotive culture would come to an end. Nobody would be able to drive an auto with the windows rolled up. The windows on any form of mass transhit would, within a matter of moments of being occupied by more than a few people, would either turn white or black from all of the different colors.

Everybody would probably switch to bicycles and motorcycles, which would be a vast economic and environmental improvement over our lust for SUV's.

Compact cars would probably be the first victims: too little space for too little breathable and visible air.

You would have to buy new furniture and clothes to match the color of your ass funk. The truly neurotic would also paint the interior of their houses the same color so that the cloud would be camoflauged. Oh, of course hosts and hostesses would tell their guests that the color is fashionable this year, but every would know the real reason.

Imagine that you work in a cubicle farm on the the 27th floor of some soul-less glass and steel tower. You stand up to stretch your legs and look out across the production pasture only to see a methane cloud emerging from that hot blonde in accounting's cubicle.

We would have another reason to hate each other. There would be discrimination based on the color of your ass emanations. The mass of people producing little green clouds would no longer trust their neighbors who produce purple.

Can you imagine going to the swimming pool and watching the little bubbles explode on the surface? I can hear the young children's giggles as these tiny mushroom clouds break the surface. I can also hear the lifeguard's whistle and their pimply voices screeching out "Sir, stop farting in the pool."

American jurisprudence would come to an end. Judges would lose all credibility after they floated the first air biscuit. Seriously. Can't you just see the whole nation laughing the first time the TV cameras caught Lance Ito squeezing out one? Consider what would have happened had OJ did an SBD as he tried to pull on that too small glove. Can't you just see Johnny Cochrane rolling on the floor the first time that a burgundy cloud floated up from the front and back of Marcia Clark's mini-skirt?

Lastly, A whole new industry would emerge: food additives whose sole purpose would be to try to either make your gas a specific color or promise you clear/invisible farts. Suddenly, Salsa Verde and Salsa Rojo takes on whole different meanings.
_______
Yo quiero Taco Bell.

It seems a bit misguided to me. I use six squares. If their dispenser only shells out five at a time (1) I'll have to get two portions (or ten sheets) in order to satisfactorily complete my wipe and (2) I'll boycott Kimberly-Clark products when possible.

First, robo-hand-dryers, then robo toilets and faucets, now robo-asswipe-dispensers. If their really concerned about the environment, why not create a vacuum that sucks the shit out of you instead of wasting all that TP and water?

Britain has lots of cameras on its streets and were instrumental in catching the culprits in the Doctors car bombing plot. Of course, one of the consequences of so public surveillance cameras will be that "dumping a load beside the road and walking away contented" will become much more difficult.

Frankly, I'm leery about the cameras. I like my privacy. But if I had the same problems as are brewing in Londonistan, I might be willing to give up more of personal freedoms in exchange for safety.
_______
Yo quiero Taco Bell.

You carry a rather large bush? Would that be a juniper, a boxwood or a pussy willow? And why not just leave the shrubbery on the bus?

Why not wipe from front to back? This would seem to have the advantage of carrying the smear away from the foliage. Of course, depending on the consistency of the dingleberries, it might leave tracks up the back, but it would seem to be a more sanitary way to deal with the problem. Unless, the bush wraps all the way around to the sacrum, in which case, ass wiping technique might be a secondary consideration to forest management.

In any case, call an arborist for further assistance. Or even a lumber jack. I hear that they're also okay.

_______
Yo Quiero Taco Bell.

I'm a Luddite and proud of it. 'nuff said.

Did you notice that their's not a fleck of cellulite in that whole collection of backsides. Just what cross-section of American assdom is that supposed to represent?
_______
Deja Poo - Because this shit's so strange, it couldn't ever have happened before.

So, Tisk Tisk, women aren't allowed to have any kind of relationship with men other than their hubbies? How absolutely islamic. Maybe we should break out the burkas while were at it.
_______
Deja Poo - Because this shit's so strange, it couldn't ever have happened before.

My crap was mathematical today. It looked like pi.
_______
Deja Poo - Because this shit's so strange, it couldn't ever have happened before.

Did you have to declare anything stuck to the bottom of your shoes at Customs?

Next time, fly Aeroflot because chickens in the overhead storage compartments are better than blue fertilizer flowing down the aisle.
_______
Deja Poo - Because this shit's so strange, it couldn't ever have happened before.

In this Casbah, he may be Israel but you are Palestine. You have the right to use the territories, occupied or not. And if he will not grant you the right of return, you should reiterate that you will not be held responsible for what that asshole Hamas will do.
_______
Deja Poo - Because this shit's so strange, it couldn't ever have happened before.

Poooo-rrraaaahhhh!
_______
Deja Poo - Because this shit's so strange, it couldn't ever have happened before.

So, you're not sure when to be concerned about the size, shape, texture, smell, viscosity, density of your own turds. I say, go with your feelings. If you're feeling okay with it, then flush it away. If, however, you're feeling concerned about it (like your butt feels like it could now be the berth for the USS Ronald Reagan), then accept and explore those feelings. Don't question their validity; just go with them. If you're still concerned and think that you need a second opinion, here are some options:

Ask Us. We're here for you. I don't hang out in the forums, but somebody is usually around. So, post something. And, the more graphic the description, the more we're going to like it. Which brings us to our next suggestion.

Ask your friends. Most of them probably have e-mail. I would suggest sending them some digital photos. Don't forget to hold the Turd-in-Question (TiQ) in your hand while taking the photo, so that your friends will be able to get a sense of perspective as they are examining the pictures.

Ask your family. It's a great opportunity to get their opinions on your bowel movements as well as catch up on other matters. Put the TiQ in a clear Pyrex bowl on your living room table and have the family over for tea and cookies. Don't be shy about it either. Your parents cleaned your ass when you were an infant, so probably nothing that comes from your butt can astonish them. And your sibs, well, this can only bring them closer to you.

Ask your neighbors. Physical proximity is important. If you need an immediate second opinion, I would suggest you try your neighbors. Just go over to apartment 1D -- you know, where the cute little brunette lives that you see every morning in the elevator but haven't had the nerve to speak to yet -- and ask her back to your apartment. I'm sure that she'll have some advice for you.

Ask strangers. Because they have no emotional stake in a relationship with you, they may give you the most candid opinions of all. I would not, however, suggest asking a streetperson. These people usually have mental problems and can occassionally be dangerous. Besides, they might think you're crazy.

Ask your doctor. If you're still puzzled and perplexed, I would suggest then putting the TiQ in a Glad sandwich bag (either Zip-loc or folder-over) and show it to your doctor for a professional opinion. Be sure to let the office receptionist know that you have a sample for the doctor to inspect. Because of the obvious urgency of the situation, I'm sure that she'll arrange for you to see the doctor as quickly as possible. If you have to wait for the doctor though, you might want to solicit the opinion of the other patients in the waiting room.

Ask your co-workers. Have you ever known your co-workers to not have an opinion or to give you bad advice? For a really high-quality group opinion, I would suggest that you pack the TiQ in your thermos with your lunch. Show the TiQ to people at the water fountain or the coffee maker. I'm sure that your co-workers will share their opinion with you after discussing it at great length amongst themselves. In fact, you'll probably even be getting an opinion from your boss, HR, a corporate VP or two and even from the building's security staff.

Ask your government. Don't bother with the local agencies; go directly to FEMA. These people have learned a thing or two since the Katrina crisis. They can give you the most efficient evacuation route and provide food and water during your crisis. If you're lucky, they might put you up on a cruise ship during your crisis, or give you a trailer in a cow pasture in the boondocks while they sort this matter out. With Presidential guidance, of course. BTW, FEMA will probably dispatch the National Guard to assist with your evacuation. That is, if their are any Guardsmen left in your state.

Ask your elected representatives in Washington. Your Senator and/or Representive loves to hear from their constituents. They are such a selfless lot and only have your best interests at heart. That's why they call it Public Service. They are also known for solid national leadership on such weighty matters as Illegal Immigration and Campaign Reform. They can probably point you in the right direction as well.

Lastly, ask gawd. These are truly the times that try men's (and women's) souls. During this crisis of faith, I would suggest saying a prayer. After all, if you can't ask the gawd of your choice for enlightenment and guidance (and, perhaps, divine intervention), then who can you ask? That's why we created them. You've got to get rid of the mess anyway so, don't think of it as a potential health problem; think of it as a sacrifice on the porcelain altar. Just pull the little handle on the Holy Water tank and watch the miracle (or iconoclasm) occur.
_______
Deja Poo - Because this shit's so strange, it couldn't ever have happened before.

*** Warning -- Nothing Poop-
Related Here ***

Autism Spectrum Disorder is a condition that effects approximately 1 in 166 births. It is a Developmental Disability. Males are four times more likely to have this condition than females. Conditions range from minor to profound, primarily effecting socialization and language development. Symptoms, generally, emerge between 18-36 months of age. More than half of all people with ASD later will be diagnosed with Mental Retardation.

Currently, there's no cure for ASD. Heck, nobody even knows what causes it. There are lots of theories about it, including mercury poisoning (primarily from childhood vaccinations), glutein and cassein "allergies" and genetic factors. A popular school of thought is that ASD is caused by an environmental insult acting on a genetic pre-disposition. Two things are generally accepted as true: it's not caused by bad parenting and it's not contagious.

ASD and the digestive system can be related in so many different ways and yet so different from one person to the next, other than the ways mentioned above. In fact, one of theories is that certain kinds of food (glutein and cassein) when digested produce an as-yet undiscovered neurotoxin. Some kids with ASD respond quickly to a GFCF diet. With other kids, nothing. And with a third group, there's an initial positive response but then nothing after that.

A common treatment for ASD is Applied Behavioral Analysis (ABA). It's essentially dog-training for humans. You take the desired task or behavior, break it down into its small possible components, teach these one at a time with a prompt and reward. Repeat this task tens or hundreds of times until the kid gets it. In order to be effective, this treatment (like most education-based treatments) is labor-intensive. It's generally recommended that the child recieve 40 hours per week of services. (That's not realistically what happens, but still it's recommended by the professionals.)

Some people rely on medical interventions, primarily the DAN protocol. This is generally a homeopathic treatment, involving chelation with diet modifications and vitamin supplements.

For the very desperate, there are shamans. This may sound silly, but occassionally you'll read about parents having their child exorcised. Very rarely, though, is this fatal.

Most county and/or state governments provide education-based therapies through the school system. I don't know of too many parents that are pleased with the implementation of the ABA program through their kid's school. Most parents, where they can afford it and where there are trained practitioners available, will supplement government services with private services. That is, until the bank accounts have been drained and all of the equity in the house has been tapped out. Then, the family is on their own. Accordingly, most such private services will only accept very young patients, where the potential for improvement is the greatest and the parent's wallets are still the deepest.

BTW, Insurance generally will only pay for diagnosis of a Developmental Disability. Most insurers will not pay for any kind of treatment, especially Speech Therapy, for ASD. The military, however, will. So, if you suspect that your kid has ASD and you're currently in the military, stay there, because if you want some treatment that isn't provided by the county and/or state, it's coming out of your pocket.

*** This has been a Public Service Announcement ***

_______
Deja Poo - Because this shit's so strange, it couldn't ever have happened before.

Maybe it's fake, maybe it isn't. I can't address these issues, but I do know a thing or two about Autism, children and crap.

While it seems incredible that anyone could shit a brick like this kid, you have to remember that people with Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) operate on a different wavelength, both physically and mentally. For example, some kids won't eat anything (even if they're starving) unless it's a certain color, usually white. If you have one of these kids, the diet is almost exclusively rice, potatoes, milk, sugar, bread (white enriched) and bananas. No meat. No other vegetables (except for, maybe, the odd turnip). If you eat a diet like this, it won't take too long before your turds take on the consistency of clay that's been fired at 800F for 24 hours.

My own little one, up until about age 5 would hold his shit for days. Not just 2 or 3 days. We're talking 5 to 7 days.

Do you have any idea what a kid looks like when your kid has to shit but won't let it go? We write about "the shuffle" and "the butt-clench". These are nothing compared to my kid's technique. Stand bolt upright, cross your legs and squeeze until the veins in your neck and temples pop. It looks like a cross between a vertical epileptic seizure and a fever-induced convulsion. Now watch that happen up to several times an hour for 2-3 days.

When he finally couldn't hold it back any longer, it would come out so huge and hard, it would literally tear his sphincter. People brag about their 18 inchers. My kid's could easily be that with a diameter larger than most adults. And firm too. There frequently was no coiling of the turd. It would hit the bottom of the bowl so hard that you could hear it against the porcelain.

Generally, once the dam broke, he would follow-up with one or more normal-sized bowel movements in the same day. And then the cycle would start all over again.

This got so bad that we had rules around the house: veggies (non-starchy) and fruits at every meal; if no poop by day 3 then no starches and at all, limited meats and 1-2 warm, soaking baths; if no poop by day 4 then laxatives in the evening before bed; if no poop by day 5 then suppositories; if no poop by day 6 then an enema about an hour after dinner.

Then one day, after all of the trips to various doctors, cajoling, harrassing, tears, etc., he just starts pooping regularly. It's literally as if the light just turned on, Yeah, we had to carry him to the toilet, but he would poop the first time he was put on the toilet. No candy or favorite videos were necessary as reinforcers. We just had to watch for The Posture and then shuffle him off to the toilet.

Now, he's gone to the opposite extreme. While he doesn't shit in his pants, he's become the proverbial Catholic Bear. The kid will shit anywhere and at anytime and with absolutely no warning. But I'm saving these stories for later though.

(Do you have any idea what it's like to have your elementary aged child drop his pants while you're reading the nutrition label on a can of tuna fish? Do you just abandon your cart and flee the store, hoping that nobody notices? Or do you tell the store manager that they're going to need a serious clean up in the canned goods aisle? Fortunately, he hasn't deuced over in the Produce section or by the Meat lockers. Yet, that is.)

So, if this story is untrue, then it's just a shit martini with an ASD twist. And, if it is true then this is some serious shit.

Frankly, for the kid's sake, I'm hoping that it's a lie. And, if it's not, then rest assured that there are millions of folks going through this along with you.
_______
Deja Poo - Because this shit's so strange, it couldn't ever have happened before.

I certainly enjoyed the turn of phrase: Satan's Spirograph. I'm quite surprised that the porcelain didn't break under the burden of such a huge turd.

BTW, Crapistan is located astride the border of Russia, sandwiched firmly between Turdmenistan and Kakazikstan.
_______
Deja Poo - Because this shit's so strange, it couldn't ever have happened before.

While listening to talking on the cell in the crapper was disturbing the first couple of times, I just decided to fight back by squeezing out the loudest fart possible. If I can't muster anything over a few decibels, I'll switch to flushing the toilet repeatedly.

If they're masturbating in the crapper, while I'm in there, I figure that their need trumps mine and I'll beat feet out of there. Fortunately, that hasn't happened too often.

It's amazing, how many sicko's want to strike up a conversation in the toilet. The last time this happened, I was at Lowe's with Lil DP (who was doing the crapping, not me, if you must know). This whack job asks about recessed ceiling lamps, as if I'm a registered electrician. I just ignored him. Freak.

I'm not so sensitive about it at the urinal, but when I'm taking a crap, I just want to quietly luxuriate in the moment. The only witticisms that should be coming out of me at that point, should be from my butt and not my mouth.

Besides, it's so impolite in the middle of a conversation to say "Pardon me, but I really must bear down on this turd. Could you hold that thought for a second please?"

_______
Deja Poo - Because this shit's so strange, it couldn't ever have happened before.

Who here hasn't left a skidmark in their Fruit of the Looms? Skidmarks happen. They are a fact of life. If your digestive tract is working properly, you're going to have some of these.

The real question is frequency and what constitutes acceptable frequency. He's skidding too often for you, distressed. However, maybe it's not too often for him.

Try talking to him directly. Oblique talk is good for diplomacy, but some people just don't pick up on it, especially if the talk is really indirect. You could also try sending him link to this webpage.

You might try making him responsible for doing his own laundry. If his soiled undies causes you heartburn, guess who's suffering. If it's a problem, make it his problem, not yours.

Of course, you could just start a collection of skidmarked underwear. Once you've got a few pounds of the nasties, you could put them in a pillow case and then swap them for his pillow. Hopefully, the first time he rolls over on his belly to sleep, a snoot full of his own funk will set him straight.

Lastly, if he doesn't pick up on this and he seems to be having problems functioning in other areas of his life, you might want to consider the possibility that he's suffering from some kind of mental illness or impairment. I've read some place before that, when mental illness starts to set in, hygiene is often one of the first areas to be affected. Have a talk with him about seeing a counselor.

But try the pillow thing first. It's almost as funny as a good Dutch Oven.

_______
Deja Poo - Because this shit's so strange, it couldn't ever have happened before.

You should think twice, Josh, before engaging in a drive-by turding. The local police may be able to identify you by the rifling of your poop cannon.

_______
Deja Poo - Because this shit's so strange, it couldn't ever have happened before.

"Damn this evil technology!"

Look out, Chip. You have a T-100 RoboShitter from Cyberdyne. When SkyNet goes active, it'll be Judgement Day for your butt.

Seriously, did you ever think of where the electrical current comes from for these monstrosities? I wonder whether they're battery driven. I could probably deal with a 9-volt shock to the butt. However, a full 120-volt would probably weld my sphincter shut. Lends new meaning to the term "Old Sparky".

_______
Deja Poo - Because this shit's so strange, it couldn't ever have happened before.

Interesting analysis, BD. I would counter, though, that a more appropriate "objective" measure for TP would be the length on the roll.

Imagine now that there's a bean counter (BC) who's more concerned with the bottom line than this clients' bottoms. BC wants to increase his profits either by increase his revenue or decrease his cost. In order to increase his revenue, he either has to increase the size of the market or increase his market share.

It seems to me the market for TP is relatively fixed. Each person, over the course of a year, probably craps approximately the same number of times. To be certain, there may be more productive weeks and less productive weeks, but over the long-haul, say year-to-year, I would bet that most people's bowel habits don't change. Given that, you will be dooking a relatively fixed number of times, I would also bet that the amount of TP per asswipe is relatively fixed. I, for instance, am a double-wrapper. That is, I take a length about twice the width of my hand and fold it over before wiping. I don't count the number of sheets; I use TP according to other orthopometric measures.

It's also doubtful that the TP manufacturers could induce you to crap more often. The reason why they would want you to go more often is obvious. However, the devil is in the details. How could they get you to do this? What are they going to do? Get Dr. Pepper to start putting Prune juice in their product instead of polyethylene glycol? While it may be healthier for you, most people would rather drink radiator fluid instead of Prune juice. Or they could encourage people to lead healthier lives by eating dried apple rings instead of Fritos.

Still, even if they can make you want to purge your bowels more often, there's an upper limit to the number of times per day that you would be willing to do this. Say, they induce you to go twice as often. For the once-per-day folks, hallelujah! For the three-times-per-day folk, their production has now increased to torrential levels. And gawd help those who suffer from IBS.

This, of course, is the company's disincentive. Imagine Mike Wallace standing at the front door of corporate headquarters wildly waving a memo claiming that your company is spiking your sister products so that people have to shit more often. How long do you think it would be before there were Congressional hearings on this? The Politicians and the Media love this kind of shit. Trust me about this. I've lived in Washington, D.C. most of my life and I know that all of these bastards live for this kind of shit.

BC could go after market share. Now, the usual ways for capturing market share are advertising or price. Raising product awareness is an expensive proposition. The cheaper forms of advertising probably wouldn't work, like telemarketers or junk mail. After all, would you be turned on by a call while you're eating asking you what you intend to clean up your dinner with? And junk mail certainly wouldn't do because most people would use that instead of BC's product just for the irony of it. Junk mail, then, is out of the question.

That only leaves TV. But in order to make a decent commercial, you have to hire ad agencies and producers unless, of course, your selling Doritos. Still, the cost of the air time for the Super Bowl wasn't cheap. With a profit margin of pennies per package, you're going to have to sell alot more asswipe in order to make this a paying proposition.

Of course, there are publicity stunts which can be cheap. But what are you going to do? Have an asswiping contest? I'm sure there are lots of possibilities. I'm also sure that if this were a viable means of advertising, it would have been done by now.

I'm betting that most people are like me. They won't buy the cheapest because they're concerned that it maybe 80-grit sandpaper or that it leaves ass-stucco at the least hint of moisture. Once you get beyond the industrial-strength, low-cost toilet papers, mid-priced TP is a commodity; it's all relatively the same so I don't care about the manufacturer. I'm also betting that high-priced asswipe market is dominated by the connoiseurs and the dilettantes, which I'm sure is a very small segment of the entire population. Therefore, the bulk of the TP market would be price sensitive as these people aren't a large factor.

So BC starts looking at decreasing cost. He can always lay people off, but I'm betting that his production line is already very efficient and highly automated. He could move his production off-shore, but chances are that he probably did that in the '90's, if he was ever going to do that.

Looking at the product, he wants to reduce the amount of product per unit sold. This means that he's got to put less material in the product without effecting the consumer's perception of the product. There are only so many ways he can do this. He can decrease the weight of the paper in the sheet or decrease the size of the sheet.

BC knows that the consumer's standard of measure is the sheet. But he can't reduce the number of sheets per roll because his value-conscious consumers will question his product if they see that they're getting less product for the same price. That is, they might feel short-sheeted and with good reason. There are few people who will pay more for less, although there seems to be such a trend these days, as people go from Super-Size back to rational portions. Most of this, however, seems to be at the input end of the human anatomy and not the output end.

If BC decreases the weight in the sheet, he also decreases the strength of the sheet. Like most manufacturers, he's probably putting no more in that product than he has to in order to make the product functional and safe. Putting less material in a product that is already at its minimal configuration will lead to more malfunctions. I generally don't care whether it's Cottonelle or Nothern White as long as it works. However, if I suddenly start getting shit under my fingernails because somebody's product isn't working as advertised, I'm going to strongly encourage my wife to avoid that brand.

Of course, BC can start making his TP from stronger materials. I think that putting a strengthening agent in the mix would probably cost more than leaving the product in its current configuration. While "Kevlar" on the packaging might be a selling point for men, I don't think that the major purchasers, women, would be impressed. Besides, "Kevlar" sounds too much like "Asbestos". While I may not mind putting it on my head as protection of bullets and shrapnel, I wouldn't want to put it against my sphincter.

So, BC can't reduce the weight per sheet, nor can he reduce the number of sheets per roll. That only leaves dimensions of the sheet.

BC can't decrease the width of the sheet as the width of the roll is an industry standard. Consumers would notice that the roll fits sloppily on the hanger. They might forgive a few rolls, but rolls that just aren't snug on the hanger won't do. Because of the tight tolerances between the hanger and the roll along the width, any extra space would probably be noticed, again, as short-sheeting or shoddy production.

However, if the length of the sheet were decreased, BC would still be able to keep the same sheet count on the packaging while decreasing the material in the package. The length of the roll is shorter and the roll would be lighter, but who would notice? After all, when was the last time that you measured a roll of TP or, except for BD, weighed your roll of TP? Are you going to put your clean asswipe regularly on a kitchen scale just to make sure that you aren't getting gypped? Are you going to unspool the roll up and down your neighborhood sidewalks for the same reason? Probably not.

Would you notice that you're using eight sheets instead of seven? Maybe. But you already know how much you need in order to get the job done. I imagine that most people pull off a fixed length of TP. I don't suppose that many people count the number of sheets before tearing it off of the roll. And in really dire situations, they probably just yank the damn roll and settle whatever they think is more than safe regardless of the number of sheets.

Sure, you might notice that the diameter of the roll got smaller. However, more air could be injected into the TP production process. Just as surely as some people eat more cabbage in order to bulk up their turds and produce more methane, so extra air in the TP would maintain the bulk of the roll. He could also slap the words "New! Improved! Softer Than Ever!" on the packaging and still be telling the truth. For this, BC would

get his sought after promotion and the adoration of peers.

And that is why linear feet should become the standard for measuring TP.

And that's all I have to say about that.

_______
Deja Poo - Because this shit's so strange, it couldn't ever have happened before.

Bottle of Robitussin: $6
New Jeans: $35
Hot Wax at the Car Wash: Priceless

You stripped from the waist down in the old lady's closet under the stairs in order to rid yourself of your soiled underpants without her knowledge and consent? Maybe her unspoken concerns about your crew were not ill-founded.

Anyway, you had the paint, you had the wall, you had the bare ass and you had the opportunity. You could have given the old lady a complimentary Faux Murmur as consideration for the lemonade.

My lovely, handsome 6 y.o. boy has Autism, which is a developmental disability. Although there are many competing theories about the causes of Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD), almost everybody now agrees that it is caused by abnormalities in the brain. Unlike earlier theories, ASD is not caused by poor parenting.

In my son's case, he is non-verbal and lacks social skills. He has weak self-help skills, play skills and imagination. While he is very well physically coordinated, he has no sense of rhythm for music or conversation. It is very difficult for him to concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds, with the exception of his favorite videos. Although he has been urinating in the toilet for 2 years, he has only started defecating in the toilet in the last year or so.

While there is no doubt in my mind that my son has always experienced that need to go (or that plugged up feeling that one gets when suffering from constipation, to which he is prone), he can not communicate this to us. In fact, we really have no idea he has to crap until we literally see his little body quaking from trying to hold it back. That is, he knows that he has to take a dump but he can't communicate that to us and he can't remember or focus on the sequence of events to successfully evacuate his bowels in the toilet. Just like you and I, he doesn't want to crap in his pants or diaper. So, he clamps that little sphincter down as tightly as he can until we carry him to the toilet, undress him and then tell him to push.

Until recently, that is. Now, as he's matured, we've been getting more successes out of him by either our verbal (not physical) intervention or his own ability. He's even trying to wipe his butt. However, we have to give him the toilet paper first.

The interesting part of this is that, he now will also insist (by pushing us) that we leave the bathroom while he poops. It's fine for us to be there while he urinates -- even if he's sitting while peeing -- but not while he poops. At first, I thought that this was just an affectation, but it has continued.

In any case, he's never been shameful about anything. For him, running naked through the house is still a joy. Watching daddy pinch a loaf is not embarassing. Jumping up and down and flapping his hands is a perfectly acceptable expression of excitement. Sitting on the crapper with his pants down around his ankles in plain view of the open front door of our home is nothing extraordinary. Heck, walking out of the bathroom with his pants still around his ankles and then pulling them up in front of the open front door is nothing extraordinary.

On the other hand, my 70 y.o. mother has Alzheimer's, which is a form of Dementia. Alzheimer's strikes 10% of adults age 70 or younger and 90% (I think) of adults age 90 or older. It is caused by the collection of plaques on the cells of the brain that results in the death of those cells. Alzheimer's effects all areas of the brain and is, ultimately, fatal.

For Mom, it's been a very fast progression. In less than a year, she has gone from being able to drive long distances, to being unable to figure out how to start the car. While she can still feed herself, she can no longer cook or even set the table. While she can dress herself, she can't tell whether she should be putting on her night gown or her winter clothes. While she still remembers my name, she can no longer remember on what day she gave birth to me.

As all of this is happening, Mom has become shameless or, perhaps, simply dependent. When we tell her to dress in the mornings, she will immediately start taking off her night clothes. She still is able to defecate and urinate on her own, although recently I found some crap on the bathroom floor recently which I suspect came from her. I suppose that it's not too much longer before we will have to help her with toileting. That might bother her now, but I suspect that, in short order, she won't even care. (In the last 3 months, we have started bathing her because she is unable to effectively clean herself and, quite frankly, she's alright with it.)

In so many respects, she has become like my son: we constantly have to monitor her. The difference is, of course, that while my son is everso slowly gaining skills, she's losing them. One of them certainly has biologically-based abnormalities of the brain, and the other almost certainly does.

In the end, the point I'm trying to make is that, while we attribute our shamefulness and shamelessness to our experiences and our attitudes, it is not entirely about that. A very important piece of this entire thing is physical as well. We may be able to influence our own behavior by sheer brute will, but we can only do so up to a point. Sociability and social awareness are very much physical aspects of the brain. If those aspects of the brain that handle social awareness become diseased (as in the case of my mother) or fail to develop (as in the case of my son), social awareness slackens. And as that physical ability to grasp social awareness diminishes, so do our inhibitions and we become more shameless.

As for us, we cope as best we can. We have our good days and our bad days. And when it all gets to be too much, I think that we might all one day shed our clothes in living room and run naked through the neighborhood shamelessly.

If that's true, Chuck, you might be able to earn some extra cash at Pillsbury.

BTW, does this mean I'm going to get "lamed" for trying to stay on-topic?

Thunderbox, are you some kind of neurologist who specializes in patients who have their head up their ass?

I summoned strength to tell it all
to my little turtledove,
"What's this?", I yelled, "You don't recall?!?
Last night, you shat the bed, my love!"

Mom wanted you to marry a large, mean, mustachioed woman so badly that she would poison you with molasses cookies? Other than being born, what did you ever do to her to warrant such revenge? Did you wipe your butt with her heirloom Irish linen napkins as a kid?

So, "slow as molasses" is a misnomer, eh?

Another myth busted...

What's that, Dumpster? There was no ripcord on that red parachute?

Next, RTFM before you go muf ...er ...sky diving.

It is not Jihad, my friends. It is Hirabah (unholy war). Constipation is Haram but Pooping is Hilal.

Mrs. Poo went out with friends on New Year's Eve, so I decided to stay home with the Papoopse. While I was watching TV after Papoopse went to sleep, I had this wonderful idea that maybe -- just maybe -- I'd try to celebrate the New Year with a dump. So, I turned up the volume on the TV so that I could hear it in the crapper. At a couple of minutes to midnight, I park my butt, listening to the televised countdown from NYC.

Of course, a good shit comes in its own time. It can't be forced. Nothing happened. Nada. The Times Square Ball didn't fall from my butt in spite of my good intentions and best hemorhoid-inducing straining. I was bummed out, so I went to bed. Alone. Unfulfilled.

The next morning, Papoopse and I went to IHOP for a quiet breakfast and then to a playground while his mother slept. That evening, after dinner, my ass did ring out a sorrowful, belated Auld Lang Syne. If only the urge had come 18 hours earlier.

(I'm really starting to develop a love-hate relationship with this website.)

My 7-yo son has a profound case of Autism. He's currently going through his Anal Retentive stage, which means constipation and impaction. He also lacks communication skills and frequently gets disoriented. He requires constant monitoring (spelled p-a-r-e-n-t-a-l w-o-r-r-y). He doesn't have the language skills to tell us, so he holds it ...and holds it ...and holds it ...until he's so full of crap that he can't hold it in any longer. At this point, the construction site of his ass is more like a brick yard than a cement mixer.

His Pediatric Gastroenterologist confirmed that his digestive tract works as it should. What is happening is a disconnect between the bowel and the brain. In other words, his body has put the deuce on the top of the deck, but he can't recall how to deal the cards. Add into this situation, the whole negative feedback element of pushing a larger-than-adult-size turd out of a 7-y.o. sphincter and the anxiety around the house because a certain somebody hasn't crapped in the last 5 days.

Fortunately for us, he's shown some real progress in the last year with the toileting issues. While he still can't tell us that he has to go (we either observe him having an "urge" or he makes his own way to the toilet), we've discovered some tricks along the way. Sure, we've done the laxatives, stool softeners, schedules and reinforcers. The only thing that seems to work consistently and doesn't stress everybody out is Dried Fruit.

It's funny that my kid will eat prunes like most other children will eat candy. Because he doesn't have very strong social connections (especially with his peers), he hasn't learned that prunes are to be shunned and that school isn't fun. Peer pressure will be an almost alien concept to him. He will decide whether or not he likes it, based on the merits of his own experience. Prunes and Dried Apples are chewy, sweet and flavorful and, he doesn't care what anybody else has to say about it. (And it's always cool to go to the pool with Daddy, even if Dad's wearing a Speedo.)

So far as I'm concerned, if he likes it and it isn't unhealthy and it helps with his bowel movements, then I'm all for it.

BTW, the Gastro-Doc told me that this phenomena is common with people with developmental delays and that, if it were up to him, it would be called Autistic Enteropathy. I don't know about that, but it's good to know that it's not just my kid.

"Many of the men I know wouldn't know how to begin to clean that mess up. Paper towels, Lysol (or a bottle of anything that sprays - window cleaner - whatever) and then giving up and watching Sports Center sounds about right."

That's why we have "wives". You ought to get one, Daph. They're great to have around especially when there's cooking and cleaning and child-rearing required.

Sex. Let's not forget sex also.

Now, if only I could figure out how to get mine to stop talking while I'm watching SportsCenter. I can't seem to find the damn mute button on her.
_______
Yo quiero Taco Bell.

That's a wonderful thought, MQoS. I live in DC and almost did exactly that. I was walking from one client's office to another's and had to pass by the White House. As I approached, 17th St. was blocked off in both directions. As I was standing there cursing my bad luck because I was already late to my appointment, when the thought about dropping my trousers and letting Shrub or Cheney or whatever dip was causing a traffic backup. The first of the motorcycles in the motorcade started up 17th, followed by the police cruisers and then the lead SS Suburbans.

Just as I was about to grab my belt, I was gently bumped in the shoulder by some rock-hard mug in a dirt brown suit. I turned to look UP at this blonde haired, chiseled face that said through clenched teeth, "Nice day, huh?"

Gawddamn Secret Service are always raining on my party.
_______
Yo quiero Taco Bell.

I poop therefore I am.