Many years ago, I stole a Dave Barry joke and left it as my outgoing message on my answering machine. The joke was:
“Hi. You have reached [phone number]. If you’d like to press “1,” press “1.” If you’d like to press “2,” press “2.”
And so on.
This really annoyed one caller of mine. I edited this a little at the time for effect. But this was the crux of the biscuit:
I am still sad that I will never know what the important message was.
This is Fred. He was kind enough to pose for me yesterday as I enjoyed a Ruck’s Pizza Kitchen Italian Sub (Amiel’s never answered the phone) on the deck yesterday. Yes, after more than 90 days in self-imposed isolation due to the SARS CoV 2, I ventured over to visit the folks for the famous Father’s Day. It was good to break this routine, great to see family, and, certainly, it was wonderful to get some doggo time.
I am not making this up.
So, this is a post about shitting. Specifically, about me shitting. So, if you don’t want to read about me shitting or about shitting generally, you may just move on.
I usually shit every day at 4:30 right after my day at work. It’s just when it happens, and getting it done before my admittedly short drive home just makes the drive a happier experience. I could wait because my home is literally less than a mile away from where I work. But that’s a longer distance if you’ve gone eight hours without shitting. Plus, it makes it possible to run errands on the way home, which I would not want to attempt without shitting before leaving the work-job. I generally despise shitting in a public restroom, but this just seems to be better strategic move and better logistically. Plus that time seems to be a fairly low-volume time for the men’s in the front. So: I leave my stuff at my desk, I clock out, I go shit, I wash my hands, then I go get my stuff and leave. It works. Usually.
Except today, I had to shit at lunchtime, which is usually about 2 p.m. I mean, you know. HAD to.
So I clocked out and made my way to the front head. I was in luck. It was completely empty. I made my way to my favorite stall (the one where rolling out the TP sounds like a TARDIS engine), prepped, and sat. Now this was going to be a particularly farty shit. There is no denying this. I knew it. I even gave an initial courtesy flush during the initial run. And bear in mind my position: The handicapped stall is to my right and there are at least four other stalls to my left. I am literally the only shitter in the room.
So I’m executing this ladylike shit of mine, and a guy walks in. And he doesn’t hesitate. His gait has no pause, no pondering, no decisions in it, no weighing out values and societal norms. He hears the farting shitting mess in my stall and decides yeah man. I wanna sit in the stall next to that. And, he does. He enters the stall right next to me, despite his embarrassing wealth of choices farther way, and he preps up, sits down, and proceeds to blow his nose.
I’m appalled. I’m taken aback, and I’m certainly feeling shy. What the living fuck? Dude had a fat luxury of many stalls away from me, and his choice is to have a poop buddy? I thought about introducing myself, maybe going for daps under the wall, hey man, how’s it hangin, that kind of thing. Instead, I decided…you wanted to sit next to this? You got it, pal.
I gave it everything I had. No courtesy flushing. No shyness. I just exhausted every bit of supply I had, as quickly, as noisily, and as mercilessly as I possibly could. Then I finished my ablutions and went my merry way.
But. Seriously people. There are rules. I think it’s in the Constitution somewhere.
At Least He Did The Research
“[Josh] Russell’s interest in rooting out online disinformation began during the 2016 presidential election. He wasn’t exactly a Donald Trump supporter, but he knew he didn’t like Hillary Clinton. He also was part of the gamer community, which he described as ‘very far-right.’
“After his wife got into an argument on Facebook with a person who made what Russell called some ‘wild claims’ about Clinton, he decided to explore his dislike for the Democratic presidential candidate. He slowly realized much of what he believed about her was wrong.” (Indiana dad hunts Russian trolls online, USA Toady, today)
Maybe There Is A God
The 12th and final season of the inane television program The Big Bang Theory premieres at 8 p.m. Monday.
Murphy Brown’s Back
“If Hillary Clinton was elected, there’d be no artistic reason for this show to be on the air. But because of the election and because the position the press is now findng itself in, there were so many reasons for this show to come back. This isn’t a money grab. This isn’t a ‘let’s go out for one more swing at the fences.’ This was: We need to do this show.” (Steve Peterman, an executive producer who worked on the original Murphy Brown, regarding the show’s upcoming reboot, as quoted in today’s New York Times.)
Dr. Who?
“If I don’t get it, can I still play a monster?”
(Jodie Whittaker’s remembered response when Dr. Who showrunner Chris Chibnall assured her he wanted her to audition for the title role. Source, today’s New York Times.)
Huh.
I saw a rainbow today. I saw a fucking rainbow. That’s about where I was when I saw the rainbow. LOOK. I said. IT’S A FUCKING RAINBOW. FUCK YOU RAINBOW.
*
So first you have to know that a few months ago, I donated my Howard Stern library.
Private Parts, Miss America, and Artie Lange’s Too Fat to Fish, along with Gary Dell’abate’s They Call Me Baba Booey, all went. I wasn’t going to read them again, I figured. Let’s make some room.
Off they went. And I have been sore about it ever since.
I don’t even think the first two titles are any longer in print. I have sort of hated myself for doing this ever since. Really. How could you part with those?
*
I had plans to be in my own personal Star’s Hollow today, tomorrow, and Thursday. It’s three hours west. Yesterday, my car told me the engine was overheating. Which was ridiculous because the car had been sitting all night long. I ignored it. I ignored it and hit the road at about 8:45 a.m. today.
Just before the Clarence rest stop, I noticed the warning again. I looked at the temp guage on my dash and realized it was ALL THE WAY UP TO “H.” Mind you I am now one hour away from my apartment. I stopped at the rest stop. I went into the building to perform my ablutions. I then opened the hood and didn’t see anything weird. But then you have to remember that I dropped out of auto mechanic school.
So I closed the hood and started down the highway with the heater blasting to blow some of the heat off of the engine. This kept the needle pretty much at the middle. And I stopped at the first exit I could. And I found a Monroe Muffler.
The dude told me you might want to try going across the street first to get you some coolant and topping it off yourself because we charge a diagnosis fee. I did this and shortly thereafter tried to get back on the highway, whereas the needle immediately went back to WAY HOT DUDE. I made a patently illegal U-Turn and went back to Monroe Muffler.
The verdict eventually came down: Water pump. This, I now know, is a common issue in GM cars after 40,000 miles. It’s so common they make a “kit” for it. The dude had to go to another location to get the kit. So it was going to take a few hours. They offered to drop me somewhere. I said, I see a Tully’s over there.
So I’m eating a mediocre burger at a Tully’s and as it often happens I’m already naming the kids I’m going to have with the beautiful bartender, and I realize this is the same Tully’s my buddy and I visited last fall to kill time before the Pixies show, where we watched like four NFL games at once and had what was really the highlight of the trip (sorry Black Francis) and so that was a lovely coincidence. Allison, the bartender, noticed my reminiscing, and she stopped short at my barstool and said “hey. what’s up, hon. you okay?” And I told her the whole story of the last time I had been there, and she twirled her hair and said “awwww, that’s so nice,” and then she brushed my cheek with her hand and smiled.
Just kidding. The Wayfair wife would have been more attentive.
Anyway, so I had walked up and down the plaza, I stopped at a Barnes & Noble (this store did NOT sell CDs, which was weird), then at Bed Bath & Beyond (this store did NOT sell CDs, which is normal), and Best Buy (again, NO CDs. WTF is up, Buffalo?) Then I went back to Tully’s and Allison was extremely concerned and listened to me describe my plight and then she played with her necklace in that way she does and
oh fuck it you know that part is bullshit. I ordered another iced tea and drank it.
Now the Monroe shuttle had driven me to Tully’s. But I walked back. And across the street was this Goodwill store. I gazed across the other street to see if my car was still on the rack. It was. So I had more time to kill.
Let’s do thrifting, I figured.
For the record, this Goodwill store sells CDs, unlike the B&N in this neighborhood and the Best Buy in this neighborhood. And I happened to find one I’d been thinking about, the soundtrack to A Chorus Line. Yoink.
Then, I moved to the books. Three titles jumped out at me.
Private Parts. Miss America. Too Fat to Fish. All in hardcover. Yoink. Yoink. Yoink.
I spent four bucks. I recovered the bulk of my Howard Stern library. And I get to listen to DANCE TEN LOOKS THREE any friggin time I want.
The rest of my day was equally frustrating. The new water pump did not solve the problem. I ended up at a Chevy dealer doing initial troubleshooting and will be back there tomorrow hoping they can find the problem. I am staying at an EconoLodge and found the local Wegman’s incredibly confusing and they for some reason have no cider cold, and that was nearly a breaking point for this fella man I can’t tell you how the day was wearing on me at that moment
But I have nearly restored my Stern Show library, and if I didn’t know otherwise, I’d think that happened via some sort of providence. What a fucked up Rube Goldberg machine to reunite me with those precious tomes.
And a bababooey to ya’ll.
When I first arrived in Rochester and got my first job here, that job gave me what I thought then was a wonderful schedule. I worked Sunday through Thursday, with Friday and Saturday as my weekends.
I mean, what good are Sundays, right? Kind of useless days. I’m not a big church-goer. And Sunday always feels kind of sluggish anyways. One might as well get one’s first work shift over with while everyone else is at home watching 60 Minutes.
But the previous job offered Saturdays and Sundays off, and once I moved out of the shoebox downtown, Sundays became more pleasant. I watch Sunday Morning on CBS because I’m older than 45 and that’s the law. Then I watch Meet the Press, Face the Nation, and This Week. I genuflect for the loss of The McLaughlin Group. I cook eggs and bacon.
Sadly, the new gig put me back on Sunday – Thursday for a while. I could take my morning news shows with me via YouTubeTV, I found, but it just wasn’t the same. I grew to miss my Sundays.
So I was utterly crestfallen when the boss asked me last week if I would mind going back to Monday – Friday.
It was weird being home today as I had actually gotten accustomed to Sundays in that little room. But man, it is nice to have that rather selfish comfy time cursing at my television monging on my eggs.
Happy Oscar night.
I think what I’d like is an addiction that doesn’t affect your state of mind at all but that is instead an addiction that immediately becomes about maintenance. Also, I’d like it to interrupt my workday several times each day, to allow me to believe that it contributes somehow to my own social prowess, and to allow me to justify littering.
Also, can it be lethal and smelly?
That would be great.
I sat in the back of the lunch room, gnawing on a par-baked, then microwaved turkey pot pie, and even par-baking the thing cannot improve its condition from a microwave. I was eating it anyway but vowing to never put another frozen pot pie on my grocery list again.
I saw my co-worker enter.
I am certain this man was born crusty, balding, and old, rather than growing into it like the rest of us.
I watched him stare at the television set that is suspended in the ceiling’s corner and that is always on for some reason.
That is one aspect of the culture that is not often observed, the television sets that are always on. At the bar where I lunch, at the restaurant where I dine, at the workplace, at my bank, at my car mechanic, where I pump my gas, there is the TV that is always on. I walked into a favorite restaurant last weekend and noticed somewhat brightly that they did not have a TV that is always on, and it made me appreciate their delicious hummus plate even more.
My co-worker stood underneath the TV that is always on in the lunch break room where I work, one of two TV sets that are always on in that large orange room, and he had one hand on one hip and stared at the TV that is always on, kind of quizzically. We were the only two people in the room, and I don’t think he had even noticed I was present from my little hideout.
I had finished with my pot pie by this time and was just killing time until I got to return to work to MAKE A REAL DIFFERENCE
so I started cheering him on
go on
do it
change the channel
Well. I must be a magical being. Because my colleague took his fist off of his side and drew up a chair, and placed the chair underneath the television, then bravely stood up on the chair. He began to adjust the channels.
I decided to see if I could affect his choice even further with my newly discovered mind power suggestion voodoo.
FOX NEWS. I said. Put it on FOX NEWS.
I begin my Jedi training tomorrow.