Stepping In Poop

There’s never going to be any shortage of poop. I don’t think we’ll ever run out of that. It’ll be in abundance as long as we’re around. There can be no doubt that everybody, and in fact every living animal, produces it constantly, and you can’t get rid of it fast enough. Once you’ve stepped in it, you’ll never get it sufficiently cleaned off. It clings to shoes and feet like a space-age adhesive. If only it weren’t so repugnant, and had some practical application or monetary value, it might not be such a problem.

Second Tail

Sometimes our dog shits in the house. There is newspaper set out for just such occasions. We try to discourage shitting in the house, but it’s better on the newspaper than on the carpet. One evening we were both sitting on the couch, watching TV. At one point Chalupa assumed the shitting posture, and began to slowly work out a turd nowhere near the newspaper. My wife saw this happening, and immediately began to reprimand the dog, while getting up off the couch. She was going to rush her outside to finish shitting outside. That’s how they learn. Unfortunately my wife’s reflexes are not very quick. Chalupa is much quicker, and thought my wife was calling her. She started running toward her, in mid-shit. My wife screamed in mortal terror as our dog ran across the floor to her, a turd wagging from her ass like a second tail. My wife was instantly paralyzed on the couch, shrieking in fear and disgust. Right as Chalupa leaned back on her hind legs to jump up onto her, the turd fell onto the carpet. I laughed hard at the two of them as I got a tissue and got up to remove the offending item. They’re perfect for each other.

Dog Dick Red and the Yelling Lawn Sprinkler

I was riding home drunk. My wife drove. She was the straight one that night. She’s the straight one every night. There are a few routes home, and we picked the wrong one. There must have been a game or something that had just let out. So we had to deal with the traffic. We were moving slowly, but steadily following a trail of red tail lights into the horizon, like a giant bright red dog dick penetrating the late spring night. Once home, Chalupa, our little Chihuahua, had to be taken outside. She always has to be taken out right before bedtime. I volunteered to do this, since my wife had done all the driving. We entered the house through the garage, and I got the dog and went out the side door through the kitchen. We stood there. She played and ate grass, and we enjoyed the cool night air. Eventually she peed. I felt great at 1am, in my yard, in the cool night air, with my dog. It was a beautiful moment. I was blissfully unconcerned with anything painful. I had to pee, but I didn’t want to go back in the house yet. I wanted more of the night air. So I thought I’d just piss into some large shrubs. They’re very large and conceal you completely on two sides when you’re behind them. The house hides you on the other side, and the only other side is the backyard which ends in a thick line of tall trees. Nobody can really see you without making a deliberate effort to do so. At 1am I figured this was a safe gamble. This would be the first purpose the goddamn shrubs had served, other than creating hassle for me when mowing the yard. The dog was completely ignoring me, playing with some leaves about six feet away. So I pulled out my dick and begin to piss into the shrubs. It felt great to let them know how I felt about them. My beautiful evening was getting even better. I felt empowered, like I was voting. Voting against the goddamned shrubs that I never wanted! At this point the dog regained interest in me, as my urine stream was loudly raining upon the shrubs and ground. I yelled at her, “No! Get away!” as I spun around madly, trying to keep my piss away from her. I began to wish that I hadn’t drunk so much, not because I was drunk, but because I had a lot of piss to release and I couldn’t stop releasing it. I wished I hadn’t drunk so much as I spun around like a six foot tall, yelling lawn sprinkler.

September 1, 2007

It was our five-year wedding anniversary. We finished dinner and headed down to the Lava Lounge. As anticipated, Greg was there tending the bar, drunk again. He’s remarkably functional when he’s drunk. I don’t know if he’s necessarily developed an especially high tolerance. I believe that he’s simply gotten proficient at working while inebriated. Perhaps it’s a combination of the two. I ordered a double of Knob Creek, on the rocks. Greg poured me what must have been a triple. Some ice and bourbon clear up to the lip of the glass. My wife got some bizarre sort of girlish cocktail. He neglected to charge us. Initially I thought this was because he was being nice, but then it occurred to me that it was more likely because he simply forgot to charge. I wasn’t about to remind him. I saw it as an anniversary gift. Then the free shots started. Glenlivet for Greg and I. My wife got a complicated girl shot with a weird, playfully obscene name which I can’t remember. A beautiful man I had never seen before entered the bar. Greg seemed to know him. I’m not really very gay, but I can identify a gorgeous man when I see one. Pale, blue eyes, striking features, curly light brown hair, sideburns, clean-shaven, about 6’ and lean, lots of nice, well-done tattoos. He was wearing a yellow polo shirt. He had a small pizza under one arm, and he sat down beside me to eat it. His name was Nathan. He and I talked about literature while he ate, while Greg talked with my wife. He had excellent taste: Henry Miller, Charles Bukowski, Hunter Thompson, William Burroughs, and lots of writers I’d never heard of. We were all showing off our tattoos and talking. He was familiar with Occam’s Razor, and thus understood the tattoo on my shoulder. Periodically one of us would dart over to the Internet jukebox and add some songs to the playlist. I played “Albatross” by C.O.C. Everybody approved. I followed it up with “Fairytale of New York” by the Pogues. It got even more approval. Greg and Katie started singing along with parts of it. There were more free shots. I followed the Pogues up with “First We Take Manhattan, Then We Take Berlin” by Leonard Cohen. Greg got so excited that I thought he was about to offer me a hand job. He declared at that point that we were brothers. There were more shots, and more toasting. We all became family. My next song came on, “Captain Jack” by Billy Joel. Everybody more-or-less approved politely, except the other bartender, who pulled it. That was the last song that I played. Nathan had to go. Katie had to tend to other patrons. The conversation began to disintegrate, and it was time to move on. Somebody played “Africa” by Toto, and they all sang at our backs as we walked out the door. We walked down to the Moose, and didn’t see another soul that we knew.

Armpit Hair

Everybody, without exception, should shave their armpits. Armpit hair is disgusting on everybody, male and female. I fail to grasp how feminists find it empowering to let their armpit hair grow. Would it be empowering to not wipe one’s ass after a healthy bowel movement, or not brush one’s teeth after eating? I am not an excessively vain man, but I do shave my armpits. It's just good hygiene. It reduces odor dramatically, and there’s nothing empowering about human stench. That just sucks. The claim that such hair growth is natural, and that the act of shaving it is both unnatural and amounts to some sort of indication of self-hatred or sense of shame is utterly ridiculous. Wiping your ass after a bowel movement is unnatural, but it’s a great idea. Brushing your teeth, likewise. The practice of female armpit hair growing just seems like a misdirected conviction. There have got to be more effective, more compelling ways of moving forward an ideology.