HEY, I’M ONLY 55!

It’s official: I am now less mature than my 13-year-old son. The following pieces of dialogue should be enough to convince you.

My Son: Hey Dad, what’s for dinner tonight?
Me: I believe your mother said we are having poop.

Son: Dad, you’ll never guess what this kid did at school today.
Me: Pooped in his pants?
Son: No.
Me: Threw up?
Son: No. Come on, Dad.
Me: Well, then I really don’t care.

Son: Dad, how come the dog smells like Cheerios?
Me: Because I gave her some earlier and she just farted.
Wife: Get a life, will you?

Son: Hey Dad, do we have anything for lunch?
Me: I think there’s a carton of poop in the fridge.
Son: No, seriously.
Me: I’m just kidding. There’s also a jar of pee.

I GAVE HER $42 AND A BAG OF DOG SHIT

Maybe some of you pet owners have experienced this, but it was a new one for me.

The veterinarian needed a fecal sample to test our Golden Retriever, Molly, for intestinal parasites.

Hey, no problem, I figured. I’ve got a whole backyard full of dog crap! Come on by, Doc, and take your pick among the variety of colors and textures. You can find the pungent piles right next to the spots of dying grass where my little princess empties her bladder every five minutes.

If only it was that easy. You see, the vet needed a fresh fecal sample that was less than four hours old.

So now I can add monitoring my dog’s bowel movements to my resume. As soon as I see her contributing her morning glory, I need to run out to the back yard and scoop up a dollop of doody.

But wait: Is there is a special kind of container in which I must place this cargo of crap? Maybe some sort of non-corrosive moon metal? The vet tells me that any container will be fine, even a baggie. OK, glad I got some clarification on that one. Saved me a trip to Petco.

For some reason, I felt ridiculous as I drove to the vet with a baggie full of dog shit on the seat next to me. (Maybe it was the seat belt. At least I could use the carpool lane.)

And then I felt doubly ridiculous when I approached the attractive young vet assistant at the counter, because then I had to explain exactly why I was there.

Assistant: Can I help you?

Me: Um, yeah. I have a fecal sample. It’s my dog’s.

(I added that last part just so there was no confusion, though now that I think about it, I wonder what my own sample would have shown. Food for thought.)

Assistant: OK.

Silence.

Me: Uh, do you want it?

Assistant: Sure.

Her beautiful azure eyes oozed with erotic ecstasy as I reached up and handed her a Ziploc bag brimming with crap.

Assistant: That will be forty-two dollars today.

I felt like I was in some weird porno movie, because in what other scenario would excrement and money be in such close proximity? Aside from my wedding night, that is.

Next time, maybe I will smear some chocolate pudding on my cash beforehand just to see her expression when I fork over the fee. Oh well, that gives me something to look forward to.

THE DOODY PARADE

It seems that every year there is a research study that concludes peoples’ biggest fear is public speaking. I beg to differ.

In fact, according to a new report using laboratory chicken experimentation, the biggest fear people have is: Making a doody somewhere other than their house.

This is probably most difficult to avoid when you are work, and often put into motion only as a last resort. Even then, we need to wait for the right time.

They say there are no atheists in foxholes. I also believe there are no atheists when you have to unload at work, because soon the praying begins…

“Please Lord, don’t let any co-workers be in the restroom when I:
a. Enter the restroom.
b. Enter the stall.
c. Am in the middle of my movement.
d. When I exit the stall.
e. When I exit the restroom.”

I had insult added to injury yesterday when I visited a teacher at a different high school. Before we got down to work she asked if I needed to use the restroom.

I desperately needed to. I was hoping to hold my bowels hostage until after our meeting and I arrived home. But like an expectant mother, that precious bundle of brown joy was coming out and had a mind of its own. So, I was actually glad she offered it.

But then came the kicker. I had to get the key from the Main Office. No big deal, I naively assumed, until the key came.

I was handed a giant, four-foot piece of wood shaped like a key. It may as well have been 10 feet tall and fluorescent pink. Attached to this was a heavy-duty chain from which the real restroom key was dangling.

So now I have to prance down the hall, holding this enormous wooden key that tells the entire world that I’m going to the bathroom.

I felt like I was leading a parade, holding my giant toilet key like a baton and shouting gleefully, “Hey everybody, follow me! Come join the doody parade! Ta Ta Ta Da Da Da! Yay!”



Like this was a production of “The Music Man” and I should be wearing some ornamental headdress and be followed by trumpet players and baton twirlers. What was I, The Pied Piper of Poop?

I won’t even pretend to understand the school’s motivation for forcing visitors to cart around such a humiliating talisman just to use the facilities.

The only good news was that despite all the turmoil, everything flowed like a doody-filled river.

Good thing too, because I faced Memorial Day traffic on the way home, and my usual 20-minute drive took 60 minutes. Had I not used the restroom, I would have experienced my own battlefield with an explosion in my pants.