Archive for the ‘Poop’ Category
There is a joke being told, just south of off-the-cuff, and despite the new delivery and foreign subject matter I already know the punchline. It is the same as the joke before and the one to surely follow. It is on repeat, and I, the captive audience, have become a man of constant sorrow.
The laugh comes at “fart” (in 4D!) and, unlike something funny, the only one laughing is the one telling (and his brother, or vice versa). It is Smelt It, Dealt It 2.0, and frankly, I am over it.
Now don’t get me wrong, I understand that breaking wind is very important and even necessary on a medicinal level. It is common knowledge that holding in one’s own gas for extended periods of time may result in violent cases of the vapors, bloated bellyaches, or spontaneous combustion. In fact, there is a whole list of side effects that would make a Viagra commercial blush. However, there is something to be said for location, location, and, of course, location.
Also, I get it. I used to be a young boy, and there were few things more hilarious than farting in the vicinity of my younger sister, where vicinity equaled as close to her face as humanly possible. But that was funny! I was the Sid Caesar of passing gas, and my sister, if I recall correctly, loved every minute of it. Everybody did.
Which brings me to the problem with kids today. They have no respect for comedic timing. They have a glaring lack of common courtesy regarding where they are and those around them. It is a shame, and I blame the parents.
Granted, fault does not fall entirely on the shoulders of my wife—there is also the influence of society: Video games, movies, television, books, and family members have long glorified the pulling of fingers and bubbles in the bathwater. Yet I argue that the fart, as a joke, is crude, uncouth, and totally lost any semblance to comedy the minute that it hit my nose (possible exceptions include when I tell it).
Remember, just because something was funny a generation ago does not mean it plays well now, especially in the car with the windows up.
There is a joke being told, off-the-cuff, and it goes like this:
Did ya puh-who?
No, but I farted.
The punchline is fragrant, and my eyes are slightly burning—the laughter so thick you can smell it.
This post is sponsored by Kimberly-Clark, and you should read it because it took me a long time and it’s almost kind of funny. Also, your bum wants you to.
Our house was in a lull. We were floating somewhere between the kids growing out of their diapers and me growing back into mine, and as such we made the mistake of thinking ours a wipe-free zone.
I blame Dora: “Wiper, no wiping!”
Or in this case, the cheap knock-off DVD I bought on Hollywood Boulevard. Don’t worry, Nora has been worth every penny, all fifty of them.
Then the days rolled into nights followed by morning constitutions. Again and again. We are nothing if not regular. The montage had your favorite song in it! And still we spared square after square, never thinking about better ways and slightly less chaffing. We never knew how clean we could be.
Enter Cottonelle and some wipes right behind them. Get it?
Butt seriously, folks…
The Cottonelle Care Routine is the real deal, and if you think that’s too fresh you are absolutely right. It’s fantastic.
Cottonelle has a new campaign called #LetsTalkBums in which British filmmaker and comedian Cherry Healey travels across American and embarrasses people who poop. There are more than you think.
A group of awesome dad bloggers (and me) are also on-board, but instead of doing the obvious thing (wiping workshops, crowdsourcing, breakdance fighting) we are doing what bloggers do best: poetry. Hence, haiku.
That’s right. We are sharing the awesomeness of the Cottonelle Care Routine 17 syllables at the time. And so can you!
For the next six weeks we are having a contest on the Twitter in which you, the public, can submit your own haikus about the joys of wiping, freshness, and the wonders of the Cottonelle Care Routine in order to win fabulous prizes. All you have to do is write your haiku (three lines of 5 syllables, 7 syllables, 5 syllables, respectively, all divided by one of these things: /) and use the hashtags #LetsTalkBums and #Haiku to enter (that’s all the hashtags you need, or #things could get ugly).
Here are a few of my examples:
Cold seat warmed by youth / If it is brown, flush it down / The wind cries, “Daddy”
Can you smell that smell / The smell that is around you / Wipe up when you’re done
Wipe the day away / Flushing takes a memory / So fresh and so clean
Obviously this is advanced stuff, so don’t hurt yourself trying to be this clever right off the bat. You have six weeks to perfect it (enter as often as you like). Besides, I’m not eligible to win and that increases your chances by almost onefold.
After you submit your entry you can visit wipingpoetic.com and look at it again. This is also where you can size up the competition.
It’s going to be a lot of good, clean fun. That’s my way of saying be clever, not crude. You can do it.
So what can you win? Check this out:
Every Sunday, our team will select the best haiku submission of the previous week.
On Monday mornings, we’ll announce the winner, who will receive a $200 gift card and be eligible for the Grand Prize: An “Epic Experience” trip to the 2014 Dad 2.0 Summit in New Orleans!
Package includes: Airfare to New Orleans, a two-night stay at the J.W. Marriott, and a complimentary ticket to attend the 2014 Dad 2.0 Summit!
We’re not messing around, people, and to prove it we’re having an old-fashioned Twitter Party on Monday, September 30 at 8 p.m. EDT with trivia, discussions, prizes, and haiku fun to kick-off it all off. Be there or be somewhere else and missing it. Trust me, being there is better. Watch for the #LetsTalkBums and #Haiku hashtag tandem on your favorite Twitter station.
I’ll be there a bit early for some tailgating, because I just can’t help myself.
There is madness in the rhythm and a rhythm to the madness. I wouldn’t recommend dancing to it. It will cut a bitch. But it has a good beat.
Such is life that is lived around me.
Sometimes the truest photos are those you throw away.
Sometimes I drop nonsense and pass it as knowledge.
Days are filled with screams and laughter and the running where running is not allowed but really, who the fuck cares? Run, rabbits, run. Don’t listen to your old man that has forgotten what makes you perfect. Every morning I am one more day away from remembering what you feel. You are wiser than I will ever be.
Today is Monday and that means nothing to you. The same games and mischief that you left in the hallway will greet you there. Sunday was just the day with the paper. Monday is an extra cup of coffee raised in the distance – a machine that you recognize by the back of my head.
Play your games and tip-toe past me. I’ll call you on your shit. I am a stereotype. Smile when you are up to something, I’ll likely go easy on you.
Monday is but a second of screen time, but that doesn’t make it any less important.
Be yourself. Act. Don’t let the credits stop you. Sometimes there are out-takes at the end and that just might be the part that really hits home.
I never should have started the fart games. It was bound to backfire. I should have known better, but I couldn’t resist. Pulling of one’s finger is a long, time-honored tradition in pseudo-civilized society, and one might argue that the passing of it is indeed innate.
The boys are good at it. Too good. One fart led to another and now we all have pinkeye. Damn the pillows.
Now, I’m no doctor, but if pinkeye can be passed by gas in the movies, it must be true. Hollywood is about the only thing we can trust anymore.
The boys have the worst of it. They woke yesterday with crud in their sockets and went to bed with their eyes caked shut like Rocky after a dance with Clubber Lane. They just laid there, begging to be cut.
Tricia and I woke up this morning with little nuggets of carrier monkey poop in our respective eyes. I fear we may have it, too.
I passed her in the hall at 6 in the morning, her eyes were red and puffy. “You have wife eyes,” I told her.
She ignored me.
Damn, “30 Rock” sure is funny.
She went to work, hoping she didn’t have the highly contagious ailment. I made coffee and started cleaning.
The boys watched Elf through swollen eyes and made the complaints of children who are suffering. Now and again I’d hear a laugh emerge from their den of disease followed by the weakened shouts of exhausted pride.
“He farted!” was their constant cry.
It made my eyes itch every time.
Read about our other adventure from last night at DadCentric. It doesn’t involve farts.
Okay, I’m over warnings.
I was making breakfast, as is my want, and it was a Sunday like a Sunday is supposed to be. There was a fresh batch of coffee being pressed by the French and the Times was waiting patiently for me on the floor. The comics were getting antsy. Especially Marmaduke. I swear, that dog can’t sit still for ANYTHING.
There may have been music on, or it may have been the sweet, sultry tones of Shannon Sharpe waxing poetic on football and the demons that haunt it. I wasn’t really paying attention.
In case you’re wondering, the gross part hasn’t happened yet.
I was standing at the stove and I glanced towards the playroom that sits adjacent to the kitchen. I saw a naked baby butt and heard something about poop. I stepped through the door to investigate. I didn’t see any poop.
“Do you have to go to the bathroom?” I asked. I decided not to wonder why I was seeing naked baby butt instead of the diapered baby butt that had passed me just moments ago in the kitchen while I was preparing myself for something gross that still hadn’t happened. It was Sunday and thinking was for the workweek.
“Outside,” was the answer.
“You pooped outside?” I asked. Stranger things have happened. I walked to the door and looked into the yard. “I don’t see any poop.”
“Here,” he said, with such a calm sense of knowing that I was inclined to believe him.
I glanced to where the here was and noticed a piece of poop on the ground. There was also a piece in his hand. He pushed open the door and he threw it outside.
“Poop outside,” he said, and he was right.
I went back into the kitchen and washed my hands even though I hadn’t touched anything. He was sent to the bathroom for a more thorough scrubbing.
That part wasn’t really important. I just threw it in to scare you off. Besides, what’s the point of your kid throwing handfuls of crap into the morning air if you don’t share it with people that can’t take a hint.
It was still Sunday morning. There was still coffee ready to be enjoyed and a paper waiting to be read. Marmaduke was beside himself.
I had been cracking eggs into a mixing bowl. There were three yokes, milk and asiago cheese involved in the project. It was all so promising.
Seriously, this is your last chance.
I cracked the next egg and watched as the yoke and white fell into the bowl, except that there wasn’t any white. There was red.
The egg was full of blood, red strings of sadness stuck in the thick of the matter. Suddenly Sunday seemed much more grimacing, darker and cruel. I held my breath and closed my eyes as I dumped the contents of the bowl into the garbage disposal and then ran to the bathroom convinced that I was about to be sick.
I wasn’t. I wasn’t sick and I wasn’t hungry, not anymore. I fixed my coffee, made sure I saw diaper, turned up Shannon Sharpe and opened the paper. Marmaduke was right where he should be and I almost smiled as he jumped, covered in rain, through an open window. It wasn’t funny, just like it always isn’t funny, but it was the way it should be, and slowly my Sunday came back into the light.