My Shitty

My girlfriend and I have always loved finding undiscovered hiking areas. After all, that’s part of the fun of hiking, right? Going off the trail and heading into uncharted territory, so to speak. So, when a few friends invited us to come along on a hiking trip, we were all for it. Unfortunately, the trip was in one of the more well-known and well-traversed areas in the Los Angeles area – Griffith Park. We decided to come along anyway, if just to get out of the house for a little while.

The problem was that this was a Saturday morning, and since we were sleeping in, we hadn’t had breakfast yet. The group, though, was leaving soon.

“There’s a Subway up the street; we can stop there,” My girlfriend suggested.

“Perfect,” I said, “Subway’s healthy enough, right?”

In hindsight, this was mistake number one. Subway had just introduced its new Breakfast Subs, and let me say that this was the first and last time I ate one. I learned it is important never to go somewhere after consuming a newly introduced food that could cause any number of shit-related issues, especially of the breakfast variety (McDonald’s Deluxe Breakfast Platter, I’m looking at you), especially when going somewhere that doesn’t have actual restrooms. Sort of a know your exits-type concept.

After taking down the Subway, we were ready to roll. We took the twenty-minute drive up the mountain, parked, stretched, and started up the hill. It was around this time when mistake number two happened – not taking advantage of the porta-potties at the foot of the trail. I didn’t really have to go at the time, but I could feel the hint of something brewing. Of course, we’ve all had this feeling and we can usually time the perfect shit if we play our shit cards right, and I like to think that I’m an expert on my shit cycle, so I let it go.

Big mistake.

After hiking for what was probably a good twenty minutes (and getting pretty far from the comfort of those porta-potties) the cramps came. And, like the winged wraiths from Mordor itself, they clenched my bowels in their death grip, threatening the safety of the chunky hobbits within me. At this point most of us can clench, squirm and twist these cramps into submission for sometimes as long as an hour, sometimes two. But I was desperate for minutes at this point. T hen, somehow, they suddenly got worse, escalating to a full-on surprise poop, the worst of which I had ever encountered. It was definitely not a simple turtle-heading situation, either. I felt as if an army of Aldabra tortoises were all trying to escape at once, ready to open up the floodgates of Shit River. Indeed, this was a game-changer, a shit that seemed to be out for vengeance and was ready to come out swinging.

I clenched. I tightened. I pinched.

But I knew it was a futile effort – I had to get to those porta-potties. And I knew that this wasn’t going to be just a quick jaunt; it was going to be Ripley tear-assing through the halls of the Nostromo in Alien. Or Indiana Jones racing through the crumbling temple halls in Raiders of the Lost Ark. I knew that this was going to be a race-to-the-last-minute, slow-motion dive to the toilet with an explosion rocking all the way behind me. Looking back however, I realized in horror that if I was going to have any chance I would have to run down the mountain as fast as possible, an act which would only upset the shit and completely negate all of my clenching efforts. It was also a Saturday, like I’d mentioned before, so the hill had its fair share of fellow hikers walking about. Some were other couples. Some were loners. Some were families with kids. I was mortified at each one I passed, thinking that they somehow knew about my dilemma in their heads. “No human being walks like that. He must be holding in a colossal monster of a shit,” they were thinking. And these people were all around, at least every fifty or so paces. To give you a perspective, the line at the porta-potty could be four, maybe five people deep. I didn’t have that kind of time. These lethal Subway shits were coming, one way or another.

And so I made the best excuse I could (had to pee), bolted in the opposite direction, and started back down the hill.

I made it about fifty yards before realizing that this shit was coming out within seconds. So, I dashed to the nearest patch of brush near the top of the mountain, dropped my shorts, and shat out what was probably the equivalent of a small, ugly, mutant child on top of a patch of dandelions within the brush. My humility aside, I have to say that shitting in the outdoors is an incredible experience. Jarring at first of course, because one is used to being confined to a tiny bathroom, but there’s something about the wind blowing, the trees rustling and the sight of downtown Los Angeles in the distance that made this shit one for the history books. Glancing around, I realized I had lucked out and seemed to find an area that was just enough off the path to where fellow hikers wouldn’t notice me as they passed. There they were mere feet away and never batted an eye in my direction as I tried to figure out how to clean up. Of course, it helped that I kept as quiet as humanly possible, so as not to call any attention to the fact that I was squatting, pantless, on a public hiking trail. Eventually, with the help of a half-bottle of water and an old sweatshirt, I managed to clean up well enough to start back down the hill without looking like an eight year-old who had messed himself.

On the way down I realized something; although I had almost suffered what could’ve been the greatest embarrassment of my life, I felt somehow triumphant of my accomplishment. Proud, even. I had slipped into the perfect shitting-brush, taken a giant shit (almost silently!) and MacGuyver’d the clean-up situation afterward. I felt like I could conquer the world. I felt like a giant load had been lifted off my shoulders and from my intestines at the same time. I felt… like how Bear Grylls must feel every day.

I felt like I just shit on a mountain.

Poop Report

I recently went on a two-week vacation, and ever since I returned my bowel habits have changed. I used to go twice a day, almost everyday — once in the morning after I ate or drank coffee, and once after I get home from work. While on vacation I mostly only went daily, partly because we did not have much toilet paper at some of the places we stayed. I also tried not to go in the evenings by going to bed early before the urge for my evening poop came.

On the day I got back things changed a bit. I stopped going in the evenings completely except on occasion. Sometimes when I fart it feels like I need to poop, but all that happens is that I shart, or a mucous-like substance comes out. Prune juice helps control this, but I still have trouble. Also, my ass is completely dry after getting out of the shower, but a short while later it feels wet again like the water never dried at all. I have to dry off again. I also feel as if I haven’t pooped completely, or that something is still in there.

I dont know why its happening. I eat lots of fiber every morning, like Mini Wheats, and I have fiber in the evening as well. Is this happening because I held in my poops in the evening?

Poop Report

It was the last thing any of us wanted to hear:

”You have to go to Woodbridge.”

That terrible word – Woodbridge – rang true in all our ears. The guys who weren’t going bowed their heads as they walked out the door, for they knew all too well what lurks behind those big metal doors. Me, I’d never been there; the same stood true for Ron, my helper. The stories from the other guys were, to say the least, fuckin’ hairball scary. But, for the amount of money we were getting for an easy job, it was a no-brainer.

Ron, as always, was game. “Fuck it bro, how bad can it be?” he’d said.

And the boss just chuckled as he gave us the paperwork. “You need to be in no later than nine and out no later than four. Remember that. Easy as a Sunday morning. ”

We arrived on the job around nine and our vehicles were searched, as is routine practice at a mental hospital of this sort. Woodbridge isn’t the place’s real name; I only call it that as to leave some dignity to the inhabitants. Woodbridge is where the lost boys go. When someone is so far beyond the realm of normal that no one can – or will – take care of them, they are sent here. This is the place where monsters lurk the halls. People in hulking masses of flesh lay motionless on their beds. Every so often you’ll hear some sort of scream or grunt. It’s the closest thing to hell I’ve ever seen. It’s the type of place that makes you go home and kiss your mom and tell you love her; then you rock yourself to sleep as you gently weep.

We were to wire up Cottage 14 (I think that was the number). Cottage 14 was where the physical patients were, patients who could somewhat work or move around. They were also the more aggressive patients, ones who would have no trouble breaking a table over your back and then resume putting the puzzle together they’d been working on before.

We were told to stay in groups of at least two, not to make direct eye contact with the residents, and keep tools as close as possible. Sounded easy to me. Run a few wires, get paid some money and get the fuck out of town. It was a four hour job at the very most. Ron and I started at the far end and the other two techs started on the opposite, our plan being to meet in the middle and cut everything in. Ron and I got down to business.

The particular room we were in was somewhat empty. Besides all the furniture that was bolted and glued to the floor, one bedridden resident who could neither move nor talk was the only inhabitant. He screamed every so often to the dismay of the foreign care taker. There was a second bed that lay empty, so we thought it was unoccupied.

As the day progressed, an older gray-haired woman walked in the room every so often to check out what it was we were doing. We were told by the staff her name was Gertrude and her family was involved in some horrific car accident, killing everyone but her. She was so mentally disabled that she became a ward of the state when the family could no longer care for her.

Gertrude stood all of five foot three inches and weighed maybe 140 pounds. She had a large head of gray hair and one disgusting mutilated eye. It looked as if someone took a hammer to it. She would walk in the room, make a grunt than leave. This went on for about thirty minutes. She finally walked in the room and stood there.

I turned to her and said, “What the fuck is your problem?” She made some sort of motion with her hand and proceeded to shit her pants right in front of us. As the smell permeated the room it struck me like a bullet to the chest. The smell in the place was putrid at best already, but to add the acrid smell of raw dook to the mix was just above and beyond. My helper wretched, and I pulled my shirt over my head. Gertrude then let out what I can only call a shriek and exited the room.

Ron was the first to surmise the situation. “Bro… what in the bloody fuck just happened?”

“Think pay check Ron,” I answered. “You’re getting a thousand dollars to run two wires. Suck it up, you vag.”

We continued to work on to the next room. It only had only one resident.

Think Hannibal Lector.

She was about five feet tall at best. I can’t really tell what her weight was, as she was wearing some sort of industrial protection system. On her head was the most diesel ass lacrosse helmet I have ever seen.

And there she stayed, strapped to a system of restraints in the room all by herself, screaming bloody fuckin’ murder. For thirty minutes, non-stop screams of garbled gibberish.

At this point, Ron and I had had as much as any sane person could handle.

“Dude,” he said to me, “Break time. I need a smoke or I’m going to bug out.” I nodded my agreement and we walked out of the room.

As I reached the water fountain I knew that all was not right. On top of the smell of death and despair, there was some other odor in the cottage. And I immediately knew what it was.

I turned the corner and there, to my utter dismay, I found Gertrude. She was sitting on a bench, pants and underwear around her ankles, masturbating. Her bush looked like the head of an old Rastafarian: gray and dreadlocked.

Ron was the first to realize what was going on. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Mike, what the fuck!” And then he began to run. I followed suit, heading for the door as fast as my 210 pound frame would allow.

As we rounded the next corner, something brown whizzed past my head and splattered on the wall. Walking at full speed, I still quickly glanced and realized that Gertrude was chucking handfuls of fresh shit at us.

“She’s fuckin’ throwing shit at us! What the fuck, Mike, I didn’t sign up for this!” And just as the last syllable left Ron’s mouth, the door came into view. Ron thrust himself upon it and burst through. I was right behind him, dodging handfuls of shit from Gertrude. There was no place to take cover after we exited the cottage, so Ron ran for the truck and jumped in the passenger seat. I did the same, jumping in the driver’s side.

We sat there, quietly, so as not to raise suspicion.

“This is fuckin’ bullshit bro. No one said there would be goddamn monsters throwing shit at us!”

“Shut up. She’s gonna’ hear us and flip the truck over.”

We sat there for what felt like eternity (it was about two minutes) and then the cottage door flew open. There Gertrude stood, looking for her two suitors.

“Oh, we’re fuckin’ dead! I’m getting the fuck out of here!” I locked the doors, smacked Ron in the face with a work glove and told him to sack the fuck up. Gertrude was a sixty year-old, half blind, mentally disabled woman… what could she possibly do?

It was only a matter of seconds before Gertrude’s good eye spotted Ron and me hiding out like a couple of scared girls.

“Fuck this, I’m OUT!” Ron yelled. He jumped out of the truck only to be tackled like a running back right on the grass in front of the truck. “Help me you douche!”

Gertrude began to hump Ron and smear shit all over him, and it was at this point that the orderlies showed up and subdued her. It took two orderlies who probably weighed over three hundred pounds each to get old Gerty headed back in the direction of the cottage, to be reprimanded I’m sure.

I told Ron to strip off his shit-laden clothes and ride back in my gym sweats. We headed back to the office to discuss the day’s happenings, and it turned out Ron wasn’t the first person Gertrude has attacked. He was, however, the first person that she ever got a hold of. It seemed Gertrude had a long rap sheet of staff and contractor assaults. This would have been great knowledge to possess before we’d set foot in the cottage.

But then there would have been no poop report…

Poop Report

Ever see a canine crap camped on the concrete and think to yourself that we could punish this perpetrator post-haste if we had a DNA sample of all the dogs in the neighborhood? This is no longer a dream in the Israeli town of Petah Tikva. The mayor, having put up with all the shit he could handle, did just that. A doggy DNA base was established.

Now, uncollected doodies can be traced directly to the offending asshole of he, she, or it, in the case of neutered pets, that extruded them. The fine that is then levied is enough to cover the cost of the analysis, plus hopefully a bit of profit for the city.

The city of New York suffered a similar problem which they addressed by instituting a plainclothes canine task force under the Department of
Sanitation. The fine for ignoring your dogs dumplings is $250.00, but
unfortunately the 35 agents assigned to this task force issue an average of
less than two citations each per month. Perhaps a system similar to that in
effect in Petah Tikva is overdue for the big apple.

There is one dog poop hero in NYC and her name is Giovanna Gould. This defender of the walkways stoops to clear the sidewalks of not only her own dog’s poo but also that of the neglected poo of stranger’s dogs. When the poo is frozen to the sidewalk she says she has to give it a good kick to break it loose. I say this woman deserves a medal of some sort.

Former president Harry S. Truman is remembered for his remark, “The buck stops here.” Hopefully, though, Giovanna remembers another of Harry’s homespun quotes:

“Never kick a fresh turd on a hot day!”

Poop Report

I’m sixteen years old and I’ve noticed that when I go out to the bus stop, and it’s cold, I have to poop. This also happens when I’m just going to school. It’s like nervousness starts it.

However, when I’m on break like on a weekend, I don’t have the problem unless I have to go. I poop in the morning, but then I have to go again when I get to the bus stop or during the first hour of school. After second block at 11:00, it stops. It’s affecting my life in ways that are bothering me. I sweat, I have terrible stomach aches, and my teachers won’t let me go to the bathroom. Please help and let me know what to do. Even after eating healthy it still happens. Why do I also poop when it’s cold more times than when it’s warm?

Poop Report