Might as well jump right in. Yes, it has been a few weeks since I posted. I’m attempting maintain my persona as a mysterious enigma. Also, today, I felt so ashamed for using a bathroom at Subway without being a customer, I bought a cookie for 65 cents and gave it to a homeless man outside. So let’s just get to the point.
I’d like to introduce a regular weekly (biweekly, monthly, quarterly, whatever I feel like….) blog that I think will really touch the hearts of my readers. It really speaks to the quality of my posts and sets the tone for what is to come.
I present: Shit Story Sundays.
I don’t care who you are. You have a shit story. You may never speak of it to anyone. That time you accidently pooped yourself and had to drive home with your ass hovering within inches of the seat to minimize the damage. The time you were at work and the urge to poop hit you so hard, you stopped speaking mid-conversation, blamed an urgent phone call, when in fact you were attempting to quietly evacuate your intestines in the bathroom that is adjacent to the office because the acoustics in the stall seem better than the New York Philharmonic. If you don’t have a poop story, you are lying. Seriously. Everybody poops. It’s even the title of a bestselling book.
I think poop stories are hilarious. Probably because people try so hard not to talk about them, but the poop will not go away. It festers.
I want to feature a poop story every week. I have an arsenal of poop stories that involve myself, my family, and those that probably wish they hadn’t involved me in their lives because I know their intimate poop details. I will attempt to maintain anonymity whenever possible, but where is the fun in that?
To begin, I’ll start with my most resent poop tale. It happened only today.
Brian and I got our first puppy about 2 months ago. His name is Finnegan, and he is the cutest puppy on the planet. No, seriously. Take a look.
Today, we decided that we all deserved a beach day. Brian and I needed the break, and Finn could use the exercise and the interaction.
We frequent a little tourist town in Florida and they have a small beach under the boardwalk that is not crowded. This would be an excellent location for Finn to have his first experience with salt water.
Brian and I enjoyed a few beverages on the boardwalk and Finn enjoyed the attention he received from random passersby. Again, he is this cute.
After an hour or so, we headed down the beach access and Finn hesitantly waded into the water. At first, he avoided the waves as they lapped against his feet, jumping backwards quickly to avoid the chilly, foamy water. Quickly, he realized the water gave some relief from the Florida heat, and he paddled around with reckless abandon.
After some time, we wrapped Finn in a towel and went to find lunch. A few drinks and some amazing seafood consumed, Brian and I decided it was time to head home.
The temperature had risen, and while we were in the shade, Finn needed to cool off.
We headed back to the same spot on the beach, intending to let Finn play in the water again and then head home.
Finn was again hesitant about the water, but quickly decided that a break from the heat was important. He plunged in the cool waves and doggie paddled in circles around us. We kept him on the leash, unsure of how he would react if he had free reign.
Other tourists with dogs joined us at the water’s edge, and attempted to coerce their pups to enjoy the cool water. They were not so easily encouraged, and Finn spent most of this time paddling back and forth between the depths and the shore.
Soon, Finn drew the attention of two cute college girls. They stood close by in their skimpy bikinis and smiled as Finn splashed in the surf. Finn struggled to stand between the break in the sand. There is a drop down of almost a foot where the waves wash the sand away, and Finn found himself attempting to stand between these two levels. We watched, amused, as he fought the waves to stand between these depths. The girls giggled, watching the puppy climb the levels like stairs, up and down.
I stood in the surf, holding my plastic cup of beer, sipping the beverage and enjoying the salt air on my face, feeling happy.
Finn found his footing and positioned himself at the edge of the breaking waves….and prepared himself to take a dump.
Finn’s shit stance is unmistakable. He hunches down, his front paws and back paws lining up parallel to his shoulders. This stance makes him unbelievably unstable, yet it is his preferred method of excretion. He wobbles over his steamy pile, and we watch, concerned that he will fall and become a smelly, shitty mess.
This moment, Brian and I watched the wobbly shit show with no recourse. I carry a baggy of plastic bags, rubber gloves, and other poop cleaning materials, but it was 30 feet away on the concrete curb adjacent to the sand.
Also, the turds immediately got caught in the waves, rolling up and down the sand as the waves rose and fell.
Needless to say, the cute girls ran the hell away.
The moment I saw Finn’s poop stance, I started running towards him. Brian says I screamed, “What the FUCK!?” which, as would be expected, helped to gain the attention of everyone in the vicinity.
I considered briefly running through the sand and grabbing my prepacked shit cleaning bag, but it was 30 feet away and the turds were already lazily listing through the water.
“What the FUCK do I do?!”
It is worth noting that I don’t remember using such language, but I am assured that I did, as Brian laughed uncontrollably for about 45 minutes afterwards because of this single sentence.
“Use your cup!”
This is the helpful advice from Brian. My beer cup is still in my hand. I quickly chug the beer, because that is important.
Hastily, I bend down and use my now empty plastic cup to scoop up the closest piece of poop. In this time, it has become mildly bloated floating in the water. I easily capture a medium size piece of shit, and successfully fill the cup with salty water in the processes.
The ability to pour water out of a cup without also dumping a dog turd is one that I will always cherish.
The beach has now cleared out, and the turds have floated 20 feet down the shore while I hobble through the water and the uneven shore, attempting to catch the remaining pieces. I have never felt more like Jaws was happening. Or Caddyshack. But this was not a Baby Ruth.
I realize, a bit late, that there is no world in which I will be able to keep the current turd contained and still use the same cup to ensnare another. I quickly debate my options, and all seem like I’m going to have to get my hands dirty. As the pieces of poop get deeper, I begin to panic more and realize I will have to make the difficult choice.
I reach down and grab the turd with my bare hand.
It is surprisingly firm.
I quickly deposit it in the plastic cup, along with its friend. I stare, dumbfounded, at the plastic cup that once housed my beer, now occupied by two piece of dog shit, an inch of sand obtained in the scooping, and 4 inches of water.
“What the FUCK do I do with it?!”
I apparently get very mouthy in high stress situations.
“ Don’t drink it.”
Helpful Brian is helpful.
“Throw it in the trashcan!”
I trudge the 30 feet through the sand, and next to our towels and shoes is a trash can. I throw the water laden cup in the can and turn to look at my dog. He stares at me, unconcerned with the situation, only excited about the next wave crashing on the beach.
“I will never forgive you for this.” I say to him, walking back down to the breaking waves.
He looks me in the eye, squats, and pisses in the water, never breaking eye contact.
My dog has become an asshole, just like his parents.