Bad Ideas Number 1

This is not one of those touchy-feely blogs where I write about me and what I eat and that funny thing my cat does.  But sometimes I can’t help but write about me.  When I do write about myself, you can pretty much expect for it to be a lot like this blog entry.

This morning I took one of those shits that really, really smelled bad.  It smelled like a homeless person had crawled up my ass in the middle of the night, vomited a couple of times, then died and started to rot.  A French homeless person!  And it had the consistency of play-doh.  You know, one of those shits where you feel so like you’re squeezing a tube of toothpaste that you try to bend your neck a lot to get the last bit out of your ass.

I am somewhat comforted by the fact that many men take bad, stinky shits every now and then.  I know because I go to public restrooms on occasion.  And public men’s rooms stink.  This morning, my bad crap was in my own bathroom.  But more than once, I have been forced to take bad shits in public restrooms.  I apologize to you all.

What I don’t understand are the guys who have no problem using public toilets just like they are at home.  They grunt and fart and moan as they take the smelliest crap ever, and then when they have finished and stand at the sink next to you, they say something to themselves like, “But, damn, that was a good burrito.” I used to work in an office with a guy who brought the newspaper with him every morning.  Then, sometime after lunch, he would grab his newspaper and head for the toilet.  It was shittin’ time! As he headed down the hall, New York Post under his arm, every man in the office would take note of the time.  We all knew to avoid the bathroom for at least a half-hour, but preferably for an hour.  I don’t know what Mr. Shittin’ Time ate, but he regularly took shits that smelled like the fucking morgue.  The Paris morgue!

I, for one, do not like taking shits in public restrooms.  It’s just not my thing.  But when I do have to shit in public, I try to make it quick and quiet and I prefer that nobody else is in the restroom.  And I do not use one of those paper seat covers.  First of all, they add precious time.  If I am alone, I have to hurry before someone walks in.  Second, do you really think those paper things do anything?  Let’s get this clear: it is next to impossible to get herpes from a dry toilet seat.  And, if you are plopping your ass onto wet toilet seats, do you think a piece of tissue paper will save you?  (I’m sorry, but this dude who talks about how he got herpes from a toilet seat forgot to mention the sound ass-fucking he got right before he used the toilet, and now he needs to spread and perpetuate his fucking lie so that his wife believes his bullshit.  Those are the people who get herpes from toilet seats.) Must I disabuse you of all your myths?  Even if you’re afraid of herpes because you don’t consider stoogepie’s well-researched medical advice trustworthy, your little flimsy tissue seat cover will not save you.  Here is why: splash-back.

Every now and then, when you take a dump, the turd falls from your sphincter with a delightful confirmatory splash only to send water from the toilet bowl shooting right into your exposed asshole.  And then, toilet seat cover or not, you are left wondering what dreaded species of gonorrhea or flesh-eating virus has just begun to multiply up your ass.  At those moments, herpes doesn’t seem so bad.  Toilets don’t need seat covers.  Toilets need splashguards.  Splash-back scares even me.

If I did use toilet seat covers, I would only use these awesome Dora the Explorer toilet seat covers by Neat Solutions.  Not only do they have a plastic barrier on the bottom, they also have adhesive tabs to keep them in place.  Best of all, you get to sit on Dora’s face while you take a dump!  Explore this, Dora!  ¡Explore esto, Dora!  Splash!

Dora still can’t protect you from splash-back. 

What I really love about Dora, though, is that she encourages kids to use toilet seat covers.  I’m betting that adults have generally clean asses and thighs.  But kids are walking germ factories!  They touch everything and put their mouths on everything, and they do this after they crawl around on the floor, stick their fingers up their assholes, and lick and taste everything.  (By the way, if you are of legal age in your particular jurisdiction and this description fits you even remotely, please email me.) This is perfectly healthy for kids.  In fact, according to Science Daily, all those germs may be good for kids because children are an entirely separate and superior species.  But it’s great that kids use toilet seat covers because we adults need protection from them.  So, I’m glad that Dora is there for us.  She’s got our asses covered.  ¡Explore esto, Dora!  Splash!

But, as long as kids use Dora, I will keep not using toilet seat covers.  I mean, if I were worried about germs, I might use toilet seat covers in my own bathroom.  I have lived in my apartment for several years and have had many guests, and I don’t think I have ever cleaned the toilet bowl seat.  Or the bathroom.

Anyway, I did not intend to write this much shit about shit.  This post was supposed to be about my bad ideas.  But my bad ideas have to do with shit.

See, I did not explain the background before.  The day before yesterday, I bought a $7 steak for dinner.  In New York City, in Manhattan, I bought an entire steak with steak fries and a shitty salad for $7!  I was proud of myself.  So, anyway, I ate half the steak, then I went to bed.  When I woke up yesterday morning, I took a normally stinky shit.  Not abnormally stinky.  Everything was fine.  But I also realized that I had left the steak sitting on my coffee table overnight.  I had forgotten to put it in the fridge.  So, I did what most people would do.  I carefully closed the container the steak had come in (which I had eaten out of — why waste a dish?) and threw it in the trash.

Then yesterday, while I was at work, instead of my usual daydreaming and work avoidance, I found myself thinking about the steak.  Why had I thrown it out?  I mean, it was only exposed to the living room elements for a few hours.  I probably could have thrown it in the fridge and eaten the rest of it for dinner.  That would have saved me from having to buy dinner that night.  And, slowly, this thinking turned into wondering whether, since I was by then convinced that the steak would have been fine in the morning having been left uncovered, it would be okay to fish the leftovers out of the garbage and eat them without refrigeration.  After all, the leftovers were covered.  And besides, I would microwave the steak before eating it, and microwaving kills germs, right?  And, although it was impressive enough that I could get dinner for one night for $7, how fucking awesome is it that I could eat for two nights for only $7?

After a full day of thinking this while pretending to be a hard worker and a good noodle, I went home and fished the $7 steak out of the garbage, nuked it for a while, then ate it.  What came out of me the next morning was the putrefied shit about which I have already written at length.

So, bad idea number one was pulling the $7 steak out of the garbage and eating it.  A rule, for those of you into such things, is that it is a wonderful thing to find a $7 steak that is palatable and does not make you sick.  It is another thing entirely to fish half of a $7 steak out of the garbage and eat it.

That was lesson number one.

Now, as you can see, I believed that there was a connection between what I had eaten the day before and how my shit smelled.  This connection may seem obvious to you.  If so, good for you.  I had to look it up on the internet because I have an inquisitive mind.  If I eat a t-bone, why wouldn’t my shit smell like steak, maybe with some bacon and a baked potato on the side?  So I googled it to see whether, in fact, there were certain foods you ate that made your shit stink.  The google search contained the words, “shit,” “stink,” and “eat.”

It’s that last word, I now realize, that got me into trouble.

In case you have not already figured it out, I do not have any filters on my computer.  If I did, I would not be able to surf the web for porn.  You don’t have any filters on your computer either, or you probably would never have made it to this website.

I also want to say, for the record, that I am all about fetishes.  Fetishes are just fine with me.  I have tried some fetishes and they are good.  For instance, BDSM?  Good!  Rough sex is better than Hello Kitty sex any day.  In fact, often when I masturbate, just to keep things interesting, I punch myself in the face a few times.

But, people, there is no way that shit tastes good.  There.  I said it.  Shit cannot taste good.  Notice that I did not say, “Shit does not taste good.” I did not say that because I have never, in fact, tasted shit.  I never intend to eat shit.  Shit-eating is not on my bucket list.  But, come on.  I can state some things without having tried them personally.  For instance, being scalped does not feel good.  Having your testicles bitten off by a weasel does not make you feel happy.  Oprah’s feet stink.  And shit cannot taste good.

Lesson number two: never, ever follow a bunch of links that are about eating and shit.  All shit stinks, so that was a throwaway search term.

Folks, please stop eating shit.  If you are not going to stop eating shit, then have the self-respect not to post pictures of yourself eating shit on the internet.  I mean, fucking is fine and is perfectly normal behavior.  You need not be ashamed of posting pictures of yourself fucking on the internet.  Nor should you be ashamed of any of the fucking spin-offs in which you engage: blowjobs, ass-fucking, DP, girl-girl action, you wearing pig tails in your hair and up your ass, baby Jesus buttplugs, whatever.  Post away!  I am happy to see your pictures.

But you shit-eaters need to stop.  This is not the first time that I have come upon your nasty shit-eating in my innocent searches for porn and other knowledge.  I often have my porn with cake, and you ruin both for me.

That’s all I have to say about that.