I was actually going to start this post out with a sad apology that I am in fact feeling rather under the weather, but instead, I guess rereading some of my old posts held it’s own charms, cause instead, now I rather
ask demand you for thanks that I will be sharing some fantastic intellect about poop.
We all do it. Even , dun dun, the girls. Shocking, I know. Even that hot photocopy girl you’re spotting down the road does it. While you pathetically attempt to hit on her, maybe her anxious smile is just caused by a dreamy plan to lay a little cable out back after she clocks out for work. Sigh. It’s life.
Sorry, it does feel like such a Greek tragedy to just admit this fact. Terrible and primitive as it is. I remember as a child my mother would openly ask our entire immediate family how our poop was. The question does not change in the least in its crudeness even in another language, and let me specify that the question was not how you are, but rather how your poop was. Your significance is obviously privileged in this household.
After all these years, I still don’t know how one would answer that with dignity, and do let me say that she does not ask that question anymore as my sister and I combined alas revolted against her till resignation, or just exhaustion for her part – it was just curiosity she’d say.
For one, you could come out of the bathroom and abruptly shut it and say with nonchalance that it was a perfectly fine specimen, no lumps, no bumps, no green or yellow or red. The stench is just the cherry on top of the processed.. cake…Or else you could tell in dramatic, grotesque detail of your entire exhibit; the way it laid so and so, so that when you flushed it, it had to be done 3 times before the two bonding forbidden disgusting pair is gone. Not before they leave the tell-tale skid mark. Wink. Maybe even snap your fingers and conclude with a jazz hand. If you really want to get down and dirty well, go for #3, and then stay away from me.
Before you think that I am far too engrossed in the idea of our turd, I assure you, I am not. That incident with chasing after my sister with a bag of my cat’s poop was complete coincidence. Once in a
Regardless, this post does have its own umptmost importance – I am
sadly not paid for any of these magnanimous gestures, pity – it is for the advertisement of “Poo-pourri.” I suppose anyone who ever had the similar thought that the actual name for the essence was much too alike for two things so contradicting was right all along. How perfect.
Now, despite my enthusiasm, I have never tried this product, so if anyone out there, kind stranger, dear me, wants to sent a pack of this over here to Duck Island, you are most encouraged.
Supposedly, the essential oils in this product sticks to the surface and all abouts the bowl of the toilet before any big splatters happens. Then, it will engulf, in no way too affectionately I think, the hurdle of brown turd you hurl outwards. Somehow, this combination of human byproduct and these strange essential oils will come together to make the most tragically beautiful scent ever. Right. It’s like ugly parents making beautiful babies together all over again. One day, the world just decided to move on from the chemical balance of Febreeze Air Freshener and our intestinal output – sorry love, you’re getting old, we just don’t have any chemistry. Ha.
And ladies – they even have different sizes and types of compacts for these suckers, some that look like a tube of mascara or lipstick so you can take it on the go – you know, for first date emergencies and all, that’s the best way to kick off the evening.
If all of this had been too shameful for you to read, at the least, the official ad for this is hilarious. Nothing like a much too ardent British red head lecturing you on the all the pros and cons of pooping. Like a queen. If we must have advertisements on our blogs nowadays, let it be this.