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.