Friday, March 27, 2009

the great lengths to which we go to hide our humanity

with Barry Dingle

Everybody poops. We know it. George W. Bush knows it. Common knowledge.

So why we gotta pretend like lumpy brown bombs don't fall out of those weird gopher holes in between our butt flab? It is absolutely amazing how far people, including myself, will go to convince strangers they do not contribute to the sewers.

I catch myself sometimes, doing stupid little things that help prove me innocent. For instance, when I'm washing my hands, I will face my back toward the opposite side of where the stalls are, making it look like I just came from a urinal instead. Just in case some random guy comes in and decides to judge me. I discovered an even better new way to remain a non-shitter in the eyes of society: use the sink that is furthest away from the stalls and closest to the urinals. Because who would walk all the extra way if they didn't just come from the urinal? Yeah, who...

Perhaps we should institute a day where everyone is required to poop in their pants so that we can refresh everyone's minds that we all shoot our rocket turds on a regular basis.


Friday, March 20, 2009

awkward boys

with Barry Dingle

I love kids. Not in a weird way. They understand me and I, them. But sometimes they are odd ducks and they make you feel uncomfortable. They become the hot girl who sits in front of you that makes you feel awkward every time you breathe. Hmm, comparing children to hot girls you fantasize about... No, that's not creepy.

Sitting, silent, peaceful. Little soft scraps diving into the water, making beautiful ripples for their friends to land and begin the ultimate synchronized swim routine. Wonderful. Then that little shit (male child) came in and crapped on my solitude.

He comes in and stops in front of my stall for entirely too long -- seven or eight seconds at least. Probably more. He finally goes to the other stall, stops, and comes back, staring at my stall. What are you looking at, punk ass? I almost walked out with my dick, balls, and shit hanging out to slap this weird clown. He was creeping me out and that's obviously hard to do.

After an eternity, he goes into the oversized handicapable stall and TRIES to poop. I use that word because little buddy was having some trouble. All the strains and effort almost made me feel bad for the creepy little bastard.

I didn't stick around to find out what happened but I hope he got it all out. Maybe God was punishing him for staring at me with his x-ray vision. After all, it's one of the Ten Commodements.


Friday, March 13, 2009

green eggs and ham

with Barry Dingle

My poop was scary today. It was green.

Not the dark forest green stuff that churns out when you're ill. I'm talking about the neon nuclear variety.

This particular dump looked like what I imagine radioactive waste to look like. It was like a Kermit the Frog's hand holding a piece of Kryptonite. I mean this shit was glowing.

I don't know what I ate but I have a strong feeling it is going to help today's poop survive in the hard knock sewers of Los Angeles and possibly begin to fight crime in the stank underbelly of the city. Who knows, maybe it will be a superhero among the other mere mortal poops. We can only pray that this is the case.

My poop was green today. Maybe St. Patrick's Day came early. Or maybe my butthole is Krypton.


Friday, March 6, 2009


with Barry Dingle

Every so often, the stars align and something truly great happens. Sometimes two strangers meet in a deserted field and make love for hours, sometimes one chubby little boy gets the last frozen pizza at the market, and sometimes two grown white men urinate in synch and create a melodious African rhythm-jam with their small white penises.

I knew something was aloof when we both entered the bathroom at the same time. Our footsteps echoed as we walked at the same pace. Then it got weird.

I stopped. He stopped. He huffed. I huffed. Except it was more like "we" huffed. Both of our zippers slammed down in thunderous harmony. Then the rain sticks came into play. I'm talking about our piss. It started at the same time. It came out with the same velocity, the same splashing. I started to think, "This is weird. I wonder if we have the same size penis." Then I started feeling bad for him.

While we shook together, I wondered if this marked my first gay experience. I mean, here we are, two men shaking our wieners at the same time a mere foot or two away from one another. I wonder if he was thinking the same thing.

We stopped together. I couldn't believe it. In unison, we returned our zippers to the full upright position. Then he really threw me for a loop. He turned with me and we washed our hands together, utilizing the same amount of time. We dried and exited the bathroom, splitting off into separate directions, probably never to see one another again.

What did he look like? No idea. We stayed true to the Men's Public Restroom Code and made absolutely no eye contact the entire time. For all I know, it was a shemale (pronounce like tamale). Although I never saw it, I will miss it.

Either this was the single most synchronized coincidence of my life or I had met my soulmate. Or I was hallucinating that my reflection was real again. That would explain why I entertained the idea of a shemale. Hmm.


Friday, February 27, 2009

flatulence, undead

with Barry Dingle

Last year I was at San Diego Comic-Con and let me just say, that is one of the best places to use the restroom. It's so freeing. There are so many overweight men who are used to using diapers in their parents' basement that there is a complete and utter lack of classy bathroom code. It's a free-for-all -- a symphony of talking, grunting, and ass blasting.

I was dressed up as a zombie for work purposes and rolled into the men's room to make use of the urinal. While I evacuated, a man, we'll call him Boljarious, ripped a loud fart. Welcome to Comic-Con. The guy next to him started laughing and Boljarious turned.

"Well, now you know I'm not dead. Dead people don't fart," he said.

The bathroom shook as my anus released an awe-inspiring thunder. The guys turned to me, unsure whether to be more disturbed by my air horn of an ass or my zombie makeup.

I replied in a deep voice, "Me not so sure."

Not sure why I needed to sound like a mongoloid, but that's how it went down. They didn't know what to say and the insecurity took over. Luckily, I wasn't really dead so I was able to make a quick exit.

My bit of advice, don't try to be clever or talk to people.


Friday, February 20, 2009

ass scratch symposium

with Barry Dingle

Baja Fresh is not my favorite place to murder a brown snake -- that I will admit. But sometimes, you have too much coffee and you need to make room for a veggie quesadilla. And of course, there's nothing to read except the Tapatio or sugar packets. Not to worry because after my most recent visit, I found the Baja Fresh restroom to be a silent classroom for urban psychology in the twenty-first century.

There was tagging on the toilet seat, good old sweet scratch graffitti. Why? WHY? You're leaving your stench and urine stains on the floor. Isn't that territorial enough? How about you just make an acid stain of your penis? At least that's funny.

What is the motivation? Are you hoping that people who don't use the paper ass gaskets will stand up and have your "symbol" imprinted on their butt cheeks? I mean, think about the effort it takes. You have to already be in the bathroom, doing something bathroomy. Then you have to decide to etch your name or some kind of design. Then you have to find an artistic object. Then you have to get entirely too close to a place where people shit out day old waste that has traveled six or seven stories of intestine. And then you have to put the keys back in your pocket and handle them later.

Honestly, I want to castrate you with a dull X-Acto knife and dip the open wound in a vat of AIDS. But I would be just as happy burying your face in a smorgasbord of old man asses after they run a 10K.

Write a play, you turd burglars. Or something that doesn't completely expose the lack of sense and cleverness in your small peanut-sized head that should be Woody Woodpeckered with dicks (or vaginas if you're a homosexual). Idiots.


Friday, February 13, 2009

invisible strangers

with Barry Dingle

Let's talk about automatic urinals, shall we? I love the idea. It's very twenty-first century. I mean, hey, why shouldn't we have egg-shaped pee guzzlers that automatically swallow? If only every golden shower were so easy.

I may be a vegetarian but I have beef with these automated machines. First of all, sometimes they don't flush and that's troubling. I start to think, "Am I invisible?" "Am I dead?" "Am I a ghost like in that movie Ghost?" Yes, I know, I'm supposed to chalk it up to the imperfection of man-made technology but when a bucket that holds your bodily waste fails to acknowledge your existence, that's when the depression sets in.

The worst is when you're in a stall and you hear one of the urinals flush even though no one else is in the bathroom. That's when the panic attacks set in. Are there ghosts in there? I'm petrified of ghosts. I don't even like the movie Ghost. Why are they at the urinal? They're dead. They don't urinate. Then my mind wanders incessantly and I forget to wipe. Fast-forward two hours and I'm itchy and searching for the mystical shit scent that seems to be everywhere in the office.

Forget the "No Smoking" signs in the bathrooms. Let's rally together and put up a "No Ghosts" sign. Then we can all piss and shit without fear of the dead.