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.


Friday, February 6, 2009

old man, take a look at my life

with Barry Dingle

A woman, I am not. So I cannot speak for them on this subject. I can only hope that it's the same for them because it's a piece of social entertainment that everyone deserves.

Those old men who come into the bathroom, they are my favorite. They've finally gotten to a point in their lives where they simply do-not-give-a-junk. They're old. They can grunt, fart, cough, struggle, sneeze, laugh, sigh, and talk to themselves and no one bats an eyelash. I want that. I cannot wait to have that kind of social immunity.

Everyday, I would walk into the bathroom and drop my pants before getting to the stall. I would talk to myself about the day's news while I situated myself on the toilet. I would breathe heavy and exhale loudly while moaning. When I won the battle, I would exclaim, "Sweet Pecos Bill!" and throw toilet paper in the air.

I would ask the men in the room if they would like to see my handy work before I flush it away forever. I would slap young awkward guys on the ass and tell them, "Good job!" I would tell everyone which stall to avoid while I wash my hands. I would smile at young boys and tell that God sees what they do at night when no one is home. 

I would be the happiest old man in the world.


Friday, January 30, 2009


with Barry Dingle

You know exactly who I'm talking about -- those skeezy dudes at the urinal who see their dick and feel the need to spit, the five year-olds who haven't learned how to swallow despite their years of fellatial experience. Good grief.

Don't be fooled. The urinal is not the only stage for this kind of sophomoric action. Toilet spitters are just as prevalent. Ladies, I don't know what the story is in there but I'm sure there's some nappy-headed hoes gracing your beautiful pristine bowls with their AIDS spit.

Honestly, they are the Dilaphasauruses of the public restroom. Disgusting. We should deal with them in the same way a Velociraptor deals with a Dilaphasaurus... Spit fire diarrhea down their throats. Yes. That's what we shall do.


Friday, January 23, 2009

cowboy hats

with Barry Dingle

Yeah, I've got problems. I'll be the first to tell you. Some I can control, some I can't. The worst, however, are the problems my obsessive-compulsive mind thinks it can control but most assuredly can't. This is one of those problems.

Those bastard ass paper ass gaskets in the bathroom. Those godforsaken cowboy hats. I understand the need for public restroom toilet seat protectors. I'm for them. But it's 2009 and we've yet to perfect them. That's a crime against man.

So I don't know about you but I'm very particular about how I sit on one of those bad daddies. Now, if you look closely, there are a couple of perforations made for the convenience of ripping apart, allowing your fecal matter a straight shot to the glory bowl. I like to punch out at least one of the perforations before I get down and dirty. Primarily, I do this because the idea of unloading and that door perhaps not opening up, scares the shit out of me, but not enough to break the seal, obviously. The minute chance of a canopy of steaming stink is enough to make me go the extra mile and provide a pre-made slide for log-jamming. Number two, I don't want the fatsos next to me to hear the ripping of the paper because then they know I'm shitting and that is socially unacceptable.

So, here's my deal. I punch it out and it hangs down. The problem occurs if that tip touches the water. It begins to suck up water and pulls the whole damn thing in before I can get my pants off and plant my tubby ass. Not only do I waste paper but I look like an ass in front of the toilet paper.

Figure it out, Paper Seat Protector Co. Because we are living in Back to the Future Part II times and I need some up to date toilet technology. The art of defecation has come a long way since the Middle Ages and I'll be damned if I let you or any other asshole mess with that progress.


Friday, January 16, 2009

what grade am i in?

with Barry Dingle

I love bananas and I love chocolate pudding. I love dipping my bananas in my chocolate pudding like the overgrown fat kid that I am. That's an erroneous fact. You know what I hate? Stupid ass signs in the restroom that try to dictate social conduct. Oh, fatboy's got pounds and brains.

Honestly, what grade am I in? Should I put an earthquake kit under my desk and start wearing deodorant? Actually, an earthquake kit probably isn't a bad idea. But come on, is it truly necessary to have a "NO SMOKING" sign in the bathroom?

Every day, every goddamn day, I see that unholy crossed out cigarette. I don't even smoke. I think it's gross but sweet baby Jesus, there are so many things wrong with the placement of this miniature monstrosity.

First of all, are we really concerned about people smoking in the men's room? Is that the cool place to go smoke if the stairwell is occupied? There is an entire park outside where every single nicotine fiend goes to get a fix. The whole point of them going for a smoke is to take a break and visit the outside world. Why the hell would anyone want to go from their baby cubicle to an effing corporate bathroom to enjoy a smoke? Asinine.

Aren't we all old enough to where we understand that smoking in the bathroom is not particularly acceptable? In fact, last time I checked, it's common sense. I'm considering taking up smoking just so I can light up in the restroom and laugh maniacally as I wipe my ass. "I got you good, you swine!" Hey, it doesn't say I can't burn piles of hair in the hallway. Hurry, get the Persian guy and a razor.

I don't want to live in a culture where we go out of our way to tell someone that a habit they have is undesirable. Hell, why don't we put a "No Fat Dudes Dropping the Kids Off at the Pool" sign in there? Every time a smoker walks into the commode, he's constantly reminded of his dirty vice. He gets so worked up he can't pee next to the guy at the urinal. So he goes into the stall and tries to take a leak but ends up shitting his pants because his nerves are all over the place. He doesn't deserve that.

What about the kids? When they walk in and see that, they ask what it means. And we have to explain what exactly is not allowed. So, in theory, this moronic sign is introducing our children to cigarettes at an earlier age. Ho-hum.

It's bullshit. I am a man. An almost fully developed man and yet, you treat me like the fat pudding-stained mouth bastard that I once was. We need to have some faith in the human race, though they can be wacky, and stop trying to dictate every mundane detail of human life. I get that we're Americans and we're superior and all that nonsense but come on, Mr. Gorbachev. Tear down that sign.


Friday, January 9, 2009

what i want to do

with Barry Dingle

Maybe girls have this problem. I don't know. I don't know much about women and perhaps that's why I blog about toilets.

When you're a full grown man, and you're trying to make your peace with God in a public stall, you have to deal with anonymous walk-ins. Then the question becomes: Do I play it safe and camp out even though I'm finished, or do I storm the wash area like Normandy and allow someone who has an equally stinky anus to judge me for the evil I just unleashed onto the world?

Nine times out of ten I sit there and wait. That's because I'm a big pussy. Do I really think that I'm going to get a spanking for excessive flatulence, or failing to perform a courtesy flush because it's an automated toilet (a whole other post altogether), or because my grunts were louder that usual? Sadly, yes.

But if I wasn't me, if I was some superhero icon that had the ability to mold the world with my fingertips, I would have some fun with assholes like me.

I would walk in while another man was skipping rocks and I would make use of the urinal. I would wash my hands and open the door. But I wouldn't leave. The door would shut and I would still be there. And when that stank ass came out, I would stare at him with the creepiest of smiles and really soak in the whole experience. That moment would be ripe for a future painting, or an allegory to the yuppie scum who think their shit doesn't stink. It would be gorgeous.

So boys, and girls too for that matter, next time you're messing yourself in a public restroom, come out after everyone leaves and look for my face. It will be the one that haunts your dreams until you come to terms with your ass or begin to suffer from entropy's sweet senility.