Tag Archives: Slumdog Millionaire moment

The One That Got Away

I have many stories to do with my bowels but the most prominent one comes from the time in graduate school. Ever since college, my bowels have become suspect at best mostly because of my poor diet at the time and what I later learned to be early onset of IBS. This time wasn’t different, except, it was. At the time I was attending graduate school in San Diego, CA, living at home with my parents. On this fateful day, I had come to school early so I could study with my classmates and get some homework done. My stomach started it’s usual rumblings as I hadn’t taken a dump earlier that day when I usually do. I decided that I could wait it out and get some food first before taking a dump. So I headed over to Taco Bell where there was a huge line. My bowels decided that it didn’t want to wait so I quickly left the line to head to the bathrooms in the building where I usually take my classes. What I didn’t realize at the time is that these toilets were meant for dudes that are 6′ tall at the least. I’m 5’6″ so that means that I have to sort of climb up onto the seats with my legs dangling over the edge and my toes barely touching the floor. Due to the height, this made me clutch ass cheeks more than usual since I couldn’t properly relax my legs as I can compared to when I sit on a toilet that is lower to the ground. I did the best I could with what I was given and let loose. But this wasn’t a regular blow out dump, this was the clinging kind that refused to clear my ass as easily. This sometimes happens when your bowels go from ass explosion to stubborn stools. Thankfully my legs were long enough to stand up without having to slide off the seat because I could still feel the shit between my cheeks that refused to plop into the bowl. That happens sometimes but I was too high up to lift my legs up and just use toilet paper to get it off. At that time, my habit for pooping consisted of me facing the toilet when it came time to wipe. This day changed my habit for life. I spun around like I usually did to inspect said crap and went to go wipe. As I did my business, I noticed something missing. The crap was no longer there. I looked around and couldn’t find it on the floor or anywhere on me so I shrugged it off as if it had gone into the bowl after all and it was only my imagination. I finished wiping, pulled up my pants, went to wash my hands and grabbed my backpack. I left the bathroom feeling better and headed back downstairs to Taco Bell to grab some food. As I was walking along, I noticed a little smell, but thought nothing of it. I get in line. That’s when the stench hits me. The dude in front of me was kind of grungy so I figured it might be him but the smell was a little too familiar. So I started inspecting myself. That’s when I discovered that the piece of poo I had thought fallen into the toilet, had in fact fallen, but landed on the back of my pants on the outside and had smeared itself all over my back and on my backpack. I already had ordered my food at this point so I waited and grabbed my food quickly without looking up and hurried out of there. I got to my car dropped the food into the seat, took off both my pants and t-shirt, wiped off the excess crap and bolted home. My friends called me asking me where I was and I told them I had to head home to change since my parents dog had crapped on my backpack and I had to go and change. I lied my ass off as I was too embarrassed to tell them what really happened. After I got home, I showered and changed, cleaned off my backpack, ate my food and threw my shit covered clothes into the washer. To this day, I face away from the bowl and carefully get up to wipe my ass instead of the full stand I used to do.

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And this is why you should never wear khakis

by Patrik Moss Satta-Fleming 

It was 1986 and the latest rage in beautiful Dundalk, Maryland, was PHOTON, an early incarnation of laser tag: smoke machines, flashing lights, ramps, tunnels, and even an computer-automated female voice that announced the commencement and conclusion of the game. This place was awesome!

I was 16 and just had gotten my driver’s license. My sister Amy is 19 months younger, and the fact that I drove gave us both an enormous amount of freedom. Our best friend Scott (two years younger than me) also reaped the benefits of our new-found mobility.

It was a Friday evening in the early fall and the three of us were going to PHOTON. Having gone several times before, we all had our PHOTON ID cards (required for play) and money to burn. My sister and I drove around the corner and picked up Scott and we were off. The facility was about five miles or so from our house, and it typically took about 15 minutes to get there.

We were on our way when I felt a rumbling down below. Then another. Glump…gurgle…errrrk…glump. We were about seven minutes from PHOTON when I decided to relieve what I perceived to be a large amount of gas. Nonchalantly, I lifted to one side and did my best to be discreet, that’s when all hell broke loose in my pants.

Unbeknownst to Scott and my sister, I had just done a very successful job of pooping myself. It burned and I felt it begin to saturate my underpants. Panic set in: Mom and Dad’s new car with velour seats! What was I to do? An idea came to mind – I could just turn in to BRADLEY’S department store at the next light. I made the announcement, “Hey guys, I need to run to BRADLEY’S for a second…I want to look for a new cassette tape.” This idea was met with immediate opposition. “What? Now? Why now? No! Let’s go to PHOTON before it gets to crowded,” Amy commanded.

I submitted and kept driving.

Not 30 seconds later it occurred to me that I could fake forgetting my PHOTON card and would need to go home. I made my announcement…disgruntled and irritated, my passengers conceded, and I turned the car around and proceeded home.

Once I pulled up in front of our house, I hopped out of the car and waddled in. It was getting dark so I was certain they would not see any evidence of my dirty deed through the seat of my pants.

I threw the front door open and announced to my parents, “I pooped my pants and have to shower and change…don’t tell Amy and Scott!” And with that, I dashed into the bathroom.

I began peeling off my khaki pants and soiled underwear – it was WAY worse than I thought. EEEEWWWWwwwww. I jumped into the shower, working feverishly to clean myself up before Amy and Scott (waiting in the car) suspected anything. This was no small task. The 10-minute shower lasted for what felt like a lifetime. Finally, I was clean!

I hurried out of the tub, dried off, bundled the evidence up in an old towel, wrapped a fresh, new towel around my waist and walked out of the bathroom. If I could get upstairs and get dressed quickly, I could still pull this off without Amy and Scott suspecting anything, or heaven forbid, finding out! – a fate WORSE than death.

As I walked through hallway on my way to my bedroom upstairs, Amy walked in the front door. I stopped and froze as we locked eyes. The look that crossed her face was priceless…shock, anger, frustration, confusion. I softly offered an explanation, “I pooped my pants in the car, DON’T TELL SCOTT!”

She busted out laughing, turned on her heels and proceeded out to the car.

After getting dressed and collecting what little dignity I had left, I took a deep breath and proceeded out to the car.

The car was silent, Amy and Scott looked straight ahead with expressionless faces, then the giggling started – followed soon by full out hysteria.

Scott, trying unsuccessfully to control his laughter, managed to ask, “Did you get your PHOTON card?”

“Thanks Amy!”

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Not my job description: a triptych

I.

When I was 14 and working in a restaurant, someone laid, seriously, a two-foot coil in the loo. So us kids stared at each other dumbly, all grossed out, and asked the head cook what to do. He walked in with the knife he was using to chop green peppers and sliced the log up, then went back to the peppers with the same knife.

***

II.

A woman came into the emergency room saying that she was having a baby. Turns out she gave birth to a HUGE poop that had to be broken up with a tongue depressor before it could be flushed.

***

III.

It was a Saturday. I was the only one working. Earlier that week I had a case of the runs but it had cleared up by Saturday. Or so I thought. I had some gas and because no one else was in the office, I was free to let it rip.

Saturdays were quite slow but I was on a call when another gas pain hit, so I let that one go also. Only it wasn’t just gas. It was a blow out. Well, it could’ve been worse because even though I was talking to someone, I realized I had to do some damage control and held back what I could.

Within a couple seconds I told the client I’d have to call him back, that there was an emergency, and I asked for his number. I sat there wondering what to do. The bathroom was three hallways away, and I was, well, squishy. I was worried I’d run into someone and be forced into a conversation. I thought about closing up for the day but that would require a long, moist trip to the parking lot.

After deciding I couldn’t clean up at my desk, I glided to the bathroom as quickly and motionlessly as I could.

I cleaned myself up using toilet paper and toilet water. A pair of poopy underwear was stashed in the hygienic products bin that day, wrapped in about half a roll of toilet paper.

Got back to the desk, called the customer back, and finished out my shift.

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Baby Krakatoa

by Eli Stratus

My daughter was about 15 months old. In the middle of the night, she woke me up, fussing because she had pooped. In my sleep-deprived daze, I went to change her diaper. I took her out of her crib and put her on the changing table. That’s when I noticed that this was no ordinary poop; this was a poop explosion. The poop had leaked out of the diaper, and it was all over her pajamas and the changing table. I had poop all over my arms, too. She was going to need a bath.

As any parent will tell you, we are trained not to leave a child on the changing table, but I needed help. I put her on the floor to wake my husband, Fred, to help me.

She promptly pooped again on the carpet.

20 minutes later, we were all cleaned up. The washing machine was taking care of the sheets and changing table cover. The carpet, on the other hand, was nasty.

It was only a cheapo remnant, easier to replace than clean. I rolled it up, poop and all, and took it to the curb. Just before we drifted off to sleep, Fred said he didn’t think the trash truck would take it. Trash day was that morning.

When I woke up, Fred told me we didn’t need to worry if the trash truck would pick it up. Someone drove by in the middle of the night and took the carpet.

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The Ballad of Phin, Little Nancy, and Walt, or The Importance of Being Regular

by Walter Bjorkman

19 seventy and somethin’ early, Phin rode into town
Walt was doin’ somethin’ crazy, but couldn’t let his friends down

Phin and Little Nancy came by for a stay
Barely room for himself in his pantry bedroom – no way

With no room for Walt’s Brooklyn friends at the inn
Nacimiento woods their only away in a manger option

Walt can’t remember how they got there or back to the stoop
But here is this inspirational story’s poop:

Pitched tent in a cathedral of three redwoods with no sway
With a natural bed of pine needles and an inviting portway
Then cooked up somethin’ like beans in a pot
What was it they downed before, during and after? – we forgot

Boy Scout training kicked in in the back of his mind
25 yards at least from camp to do your after-meal slime
No Scott’s tissue to mar the pristine land
Just use nature’s tools – a leaf, whatever’s at hand

Sunset coming upon them like a fog
Walt did it sitting over a log

Then down to the riverbank on this starry starry night
Phin, Little Nancy, and Walt, with no fright
No moon was there to block the view
Of distant galaxies and constellations running askew

Heads gazing up and tripping out
Minds realizing there is nothing about which to pout

Time to get back into their sheltered haven
They turned into the total blackness of the forest’s heaven
For minutes that seemed hours they were lost from their mission
What to do? they couldn’t even see each other’s visage

“I have twelve strike-anywheres!” Walt exclaimed with delight
“We will go our ways through the underbrush and yell to each other of our plight
Then light one up to show position and help the others look
We will find it sooner or later” – it was only a short jaunt from the brook

Desperation set in as the matches did dwindle
Were they doomed to sleep in a huddle and get swindled
By the biting insects and snakes of this legendary land?
Please, some divine inspiration come down and give this threesome a hand

Further apart they roamed to find the tent
Things were getting crucial, frustrations no longer pent
When all of a sudden instead of briars and brush
In which his bare feet got entangled, in his slow rush

A soft-slimy pile enveloped Walt’s toes
Like a vision from heaven, his mind got the news
“Yo! Phin, Yo! Little Nancy, Walt know just where we be!
Walt is where Walt went when Walt had to do more than pee”

“The safe-haven is just twenty five yards yonder
Use your last matches to not wander asunder”

They all reached camp and tumbled into their tent
Then related to each other about where they all went

So in the end it is not about why you got to where
But to have faith in yourself – your own shit will get you there.

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Mexico City Blues

by Ben Tanzer

We were in Mexico because of my mother. It was her idea to take Adam and me south of the border. Her vision was that we would see the great artists of Mexico City—Rivera, Orozco, Siqueiros, and Kahlo—and then hit the beach in Cancún. But things started going wrong and, on our third night in Mexico, a country where everyone actively discourages you from drinking the water, we all decided to order shrimp scampi.

I can’t remember what the meal tasted like; I can tell you however what happened the next day at the airport as we prepared to catch our flight from Mexico City to Cancún. It started with Adam saying he had to go to the bathroom. We waited, and waited, but as the minutes passed it began to seem less and less likely that he would return, and at some point I went to look for him. The bathroom was dark and quiet, and Adam was nowhere in sight.

I walked up to the row of stalls and called out his name.

“Adam, you still in here?”

“I’m over here,” Adam said, sounding like a junkie looking for his next hit.

“Hey man, what’s going on?” I said as I worked my way to his stall.

“I have diarrhea,” he said, “I didn’t make it all the way to the toilet.”

“Shit,” I said, my expletive matching the mood, “are you okay?”

“I need another pair of shorts,” he said, “and I need them now. Some guy has been pounding on the door and screaming at me in Spanish.”

I ran out of the bathroom and sprinted to the nearest newsstand. They had no shorts. Nor were there any at the duty-free shop. I wandered the terminal; no shorts were to be found. This was not the airport of today, mini-malls full of Starbucks and Benetton stores, massage tables and Polo golf shops. This was pre-globalization, and it was an entirely different time and place. The first George Bush was in office, MTV actually showed music videos, and Barry Bonds was still a string bean hitting no more than 30 homeruns a year for the Pirates. This airport had the basics—the International Herald Tribune, cheap rum and imported cigars—and that was it.

I walked up to a young traveler type, one of those guys you see at every airport. They have one backpack on their back where it belongs and another on their chest, where it does not. They’re wearing dirty, faded Columbia shorts and scuffed leather sandals of indiscriminate origin. They have a scruffy, not-quite adult beard and disheveled near Jew-fro hair. Their t-shirt has some obscure reference to Machu Picchu or some island, somewhere, where people drink hallucinogenic tea before dancing all night beneath a full moon.

The guy can be from anywhere, but he tends to be from Australia, doing that walkabout thing they do.

“Hey dude, excuse me,” I say.

“Yeah mate, he says.

Bam, called that.

“My brother had some bad shrimp,” I say, a little panicked, “and he didn’t quite make it to the bathroom, and now he needs some shorts, and I’m hoping you might be willing to sell me a pair.”

I want to be cool, but I’m not—I’m desperate. If this guy won’t help me, we’re fucked, it’s that simple.

“Sure man, no problem,” he says, smiling, “you can have them for free.”

I want to hug him, but that seems too personal—plus how am I going to get around his front pack? Still, I want to do or say something.

“You rock brother,” I say, “and that Pat Cash, cool dude, handsome too.”

“Right,” he says turning away, “good luck with everything.”

I dash back to the bathroom and pass Adam the shorts under the door. He’s gaunt and ragged when he finally comes out but feels fine by the time we get on the plane. My mom though can’t say the same.

“I’m feeling very sick,” she tells me as we take off.

“Let’s see if they have some Alka-Seltzer,” I say.

“No,” she says, “that won’t help.”

This response is expected. My parents don’t believe that medicine is ever helpful, they won’t take anything, and for years all we have had kicking around the medicine chest is an ancient, unused bottle of aspirin and a home colonic that no one has ever opened. I think this has something to do with showing weakness and an aversion to products and brands and anything corporate, though mostly they don’t like being told what to do, and the act of taking medicine somehow acknowledges that someone, somewhere, off behind a curtain is doing just that.

I stop the flight attendant, who then brings my mother the Alka-Selzer.

My mother drinks the Alka-Seltzer.

“Wow, that’s incredible, it really works,” she says.

The Alka-Seltzer incident becomes our touchstone for every discussion on over-the-counter medicine from that point forward.

After we land I become so sick that, after making myself vomit for an entire afternoon, I am forced to lie in bed for two days. I watch Mexican soap operas, drink bottled water, and while I should be dreaming of bland foods like white rice and toast, comfort foods, we didn’t do that when I was growing up; we didn’t follow rules, we dreamed what we dreamed, and so I dream of chicken fajitas.

I do get healthy though, and outside of the moment days later when we actually have to question whether or not Adam was dead, the trip was really quite lovely.

I should pause here to say that we thought Adam had drowned while jogging on the beach when the tide had come in but he hadn’t returned.

My mother, at this point healthy herself, sunburned and lovely, her hair still all black and long, was convinced that Adam was dead.

“What am I going to tell dad,” she said over and over again.

I didn’t want to believe Adam had drowned, but when the hotel finally said they would look into sending out a helicopter to search for him I started to wonder.

Moments later when he walked in barefoot and tired after getting lost and being forced to walk back to the hotel along the highway, I realized just how terrified I had been.

I also realized that it might be time to go home. Which we did, at this point smiling and full of love, the good memories far outweighing the stomach problems and near drownings.

At least that’s how I remember it. Memory is a funny thing, and I wonder if Adam remembers the trip the same way I do. I e-mail him the draft and ask him for his thoughts.

He replies immediately.

Dear Ben,

Your memory of the story is actually a bit more sanitary, pardon the pun, than what I remember. My memory of this story is that you, Mom, and I went to the airport and we divided up the jobs. You had to do one job, mom had to do a second job and the third job was that I was going to wait in line for all of us to check in.

Quite a long line in a hot and crowded airport, I might add. As I was waiting in line recognizing that I was doing a job that would not only affect my travels but yours and Mom’s as well, I felt quite nauseous and had a strong sense that I had to use the bathroom. I said to myself that for me to get out of line and then for you and Mom to come back from your jobs and for us to have to start at the back of the line again was just not acceptable. We might lose our flight. So I waited for what seemed like an eternity, probably only about five minutes, until I felt a variety of explosions racing through my body.

Not knowing what to do or where I was in the airport, I raced outside, where I vomited…and had diarrhea simultaneously, painting the Mexican sidewalk a variety of colors, but everybody around me seemed to not be phased at all. I raced to the bathroom. And from that point your story is the same as my memory.

Perhaps it is my recognition that I will not become famous in any other way, or perhaps it’s my hours of watching the Jerry Springer show, but either way reading this story does not embarrass me. I need to run, nature’s calling.

Adam

There is much I can say here, about memory, and diarrhea of course, but I think it’s most important to note that this is something we shared, and it is now an ingrained piece of family folklore, like your first words or the night you were caught with a half-naked girl in your room. We didn’t do over-the-counter medicines or bland foods, we didn’t have rules, we were rarely careful as children, or necessarily even cared for all of the time, but we had love, lots of it, and adventure, and we now have stories, many, and a shared history we all revel in.

And who wouldn’t kill for all that, despite the trade-offs? No one I know.

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Parenting: a conversation

WIFE: Okay, my husband Karl will swear this is not true but it totally is… When our son Jason was very little and Karl stayed home with him during the days, Karl would often put Jason in the swing while doing chores or studying. One time, he looked over at Jason and saw he was covered in chocolate. He went over, stuck his finger in to taste, only to find out that it was not chocolate but diarrhea. I think it’s so traumatic that he has repressed the memory into his unconsciousness. I, however, think it’s hysterical, especially given how meticulous and germ-phobic Karl is.

COLLECTED POOP STORIES: I am thinking I would have known it wasn’t chocolate when my finger got about eighteen inches from my nose.

WIFE: Me, too! But Jason got a little older before the smell got really bad. And, I’m sure Karl was probably thinking about something else at the same time.

CPS: Wait. So he didn’t taste it. He just touched it.

WIFE: Oh, no. He tasted it. Definitely.

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Man’s best friend

Puppies are just so damn cute. If they weren’t, we would never let them piss on our laps and shit all over our houses.

Sweet Perfect Hazel was an amazing puppy; she was cute, she was obedient, she was calm, she didn’t bark. She was a border collie mutt, attentive and social and smart. She was an A+ dog in all things except Housebreaking. F. A solid, shitty F.

  1. We put down newspaper for her, patting the paper to show her that this is where good doggies go potty. She was so sweet. She’d scamper onto the newspaper, with us saying gopottygopottygopotty, and then she’d go to the edge of the paper, all four paws on the paper, and squat, her little doggie butt hanging over the edge of the paper so she could shit on the floor and not soil the beautiful paper we’d laid out for her.
  2. After she ate, I would take her outside on her leash. We would walk around. I would be super patient, waiting for her to do her business. Nothing. I would sing to her. Nothing. 45 minutes of nothing. I would eventually decide she didn’t have to go, so we’d head back inside. She promptly ran to a corner of the living room carpet and baked a Tootsie Roll. I think she was actually waiting to go inside so she could do her business.
  3. We locked her in the laundry room until she pooped. She’d cry and whimper and howl until we let her out, where she would promptly scamper somewhere exciting in the house and let it fly.
  4. We built a little pen outside, next to the kitchen door, where we could leave her cooped up until she pooped. Minimal success, and then we discovered that she could get out and we were too inept to patch the pen properly.

It was horrible. NOTHING WORKED. Crate training seemed cruel and unusual punishment and slightly unnecessary. My girlfriend and I were both 22; we had bachelor’s degrees but were still at the developmental stage where you get the phone shut off because you forget to pay the bill and it’s easier to just close the office door than clean up dogshit. This is actually quite a brilliant solution. We lived in an enormous house, a four-bedroom summer home on a lake, out in the wilds of central Virginia. The house was so big that if Hazel took a dump somewhere, we could just ignore it. Like the Mad Hatter’s tea party – move on to another room. So we did.

Hazel was an equal opportunity pooper. The house had vinyl flooring in the kitchen and laundry, hardwood in the living room and dining room, slate in the foyer, and wall-to-wall carpet in the bedrooms. She’d poop in all rooms, but she seemed to prefer the wall-to-wall carpeting. In this case, ignoring fresh dog poop makes sense – if you let it dry and harden, it is easier to pick up. I have a terrible gag reflex, finely honed from growing up with two poop-mongering black Labs. Trying to gingerly pick up Sweet Perfect Hazel’s moist poop and not have it smear into the carpet was a nightmare. Way easier to breathe through your mouth and pick it up tomorrow. Or maybe on the weekend. Yeah, that’s better.

I worked days and my girlfriend waited tables at night, so the only time Sweet Perfect Hazel was alone was if I went out at night and left her home. Frequently, I’d come home from work, change out of my suit and into casual clothes, and then take Sweet Perfect Hazel out with me to the restaurant where my girlfriend worked. It was during the summer months, and I’d sit on the restaurant patio having a beer with Hazel on a leash. It was far preferable to being alone out in the woods in a empty old house full of drying dogshit.

One evening I came home from work as usual. Coming in through the kitchen, I heard the phone ringing. I dropped my keys on the kitchen table and looked around – the phone wasn’t where it belonged. In such a huge house, a 1989-era cordless phone could be left anywhere, and finding it was a chore. I started jogging through the house toward the sound of the phone ring. This was pre-cell phone and voicemail; screening calls was unheard of. I picked up my pace, not wanting the caller to hang up. We were not only too lazy to pick up dogshit, but we were also too lazy to get an answering machine.

I ran through the rooms. Dining room – nope. Living room – nope. As I made a sharp left into the slate foyer, I spotted the phone on the bookcase, and I picked up my speed. I was wearing dress shoes, and my left foot hit a patch of something slick on the slate.

That’s when life kicked into slow motion.

My foot went out from under me, forwards, and I was launched into the air in a classic slip-on-a-banana-peel move. Except this wasn’t a banana peel. As I slid, I caught the pungent stench of fresh dog shit in the air, feeling it sliding underfoot, and my gag reflex kicked in. My foot went forward and I went backwards. Assaulted by the smell of dogshit, I vomited. A big, hot, involuntary jet of vomit shot into the air as I fell. I landed on my back, fortunate not to hit my head on the slate, unfortunate to fall onto the pile of dogshit. A spray of vomit landed on my teal 1989 power tie.

Sweet Perfect Hazel ran over to me, lying in the front hall sandwiched between her shit and my vomit, and started licking my face. Good girl.

The phone still rang on the bookcase next to me. I reached up and grabbed it.

“Hello?” I croaked.

“Are you okay?” my girlfriend asked, sixth sense on overdrive.

“Guess where I am,” I whispered.

“What’s going on?”

I explained the situation to her, my voice low to keep control. I thought I might cry. At first she was silent, and then I thought maybe she was crying, too. Soon I realized she was laughing and trying not to. Little high-pressure gasps of merriment pffted through the cordless phone.

“It’s not really very funny,” I said.

“Yes it is,” she shrieked, full on hoots of laughter now.

I was lying on my back on a pile of dogshit, with a puppy licking my vomit off the lapel of my charcoal suit. There was nothing to do but laugh along with her. We finished our conversation, but not until she retold the story to everyone within hearing range at the bar. I clicked off the phone and stood up. I stripped naked in the front hall, dropped my suit and tie and everything in a pile on the slate, and got in the shower. I left the pile of clothes in the foyer. I put Sweet Perfect Hazel on her leash and took her to the bar for a much-needed beer.

It’s worth noting that a year later, when we moved out of that gargantuan house, the landlords kept our entire security deposit. They said the house smelled. We didn’t argue.

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The Runner’s Manifesto

When running on the busy Chicago lakefront, be prepared for closed restroom facilities. Be prepared to run far and fast, because you are running on a thin strip of grass between Lake Michigan and Lake Shore Drive, and there are only bridges every mile or so for runners to access the more frequent restrooms on the non-lake side of the highway.

Be prepared to imagine your buttcheeks clenched so tight that you couldn’t sneak a well-lubricated Q-tip™ up there. Be prepared to accept that five minutes of such clenching while running is the equivalent of those little machines that scramble eggs inside the shell: your intestinal blender is set on purée.

When you finally give up and are reduced to hiding behind a clump of unmowed waist-high grass so that you can be seen neither by the people fifty yards away with the Frolicking and Curious English sheepdogs nor the heavy traffic on the road, be educated about the physics of nice flat rocks:

  1. they won’t scratch your exposed and sweaty ass
  2. they allow you to squat very low to the ground
  3. they have a far greater splash factor than grass

Next time:

  • you will wish to store a handkerchief in your pocket
  • you will wish to wear older, less white running shoes
  • you will wish to make your exit with haste, for Frolicking and Curious English Sheepdogs are expert at locating fresh purée
  • you will wish to remove your headphones while squatting so that you can hear the approach of strangers over the blare of C+C Music Factory

Be forewarned that being caught sniffing your fingers quizzically while sprinting from a clump of unmowed grass makes you look suspicious to dog owners and runners.

Be pleased with yourself for sporting compression shorts that are too tight to suffer crack contamination.

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You only turn 10 once… thankfully

Pipe exploded in our bowling alley spewing sewage onto a 10 yr old girl having a birthday party. I had to call the family the next day to apologize and offer compensation. The mom said, “Don’t worry, we love your place.”

Made me cry with gratitude.

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