Scatalogical Trauma Is the Shit


When I was at work the other day, I walked into the ladies loo and immediately gagged – either a large animal had recently died in the walls, or someone had taken a giant dump. I soon discovered it was the latter – in fact, physical evidence was still lazily floating around the toilet bowl in one of the two stalls. Beyond disgusted, I quickly went into the other one and did my business. Which, by the way, is number one. When it comes to pooping, I can only take a dump in the privacy and comfort of my own bathroom. And, just like an obedient pet, I’ve trained my lower intestinal tract to do just that, mornings and after 5 o’ clock. (With the rare exception of lunches spent at the all-you-can-eat Indian Buffet.) Anyway, did the pee and washed my hands, then nearly ran into a co-worker coming in. I gave her a cheerful wave and departed.

Then, outside in the hallway, I froze. Oh SHIT. She’s going to think that was MY shit, in the toilet!!! That I was the fucking Pied Pooper, leaving nice stinky presents lying around for the next unsuspecting victim. Do I go back in and plead my case? Leave her a note? Wait until she goes back to her desk and then march over there, full of self-righteous fury, complain loudly and fervently about certain HORRIBLE, TERRIBLE, must-have-been-raised-by-wolves people who were obviously never properly potty-trained, and then ask her to sign my petition to stop non-flushing shitty…shits?

I did nothing, of course, just slunk back to my desk and waited for her return and the inevitable dirty looks to commence. In the meantime, I thought about my fear of public pooping and how it affected my relationships. It would take, like, practically a year of dating before I could take a proper dump in a boyfriend’s apartment. It would have to be when he was out at the store; it would have to have one of those industrial-strength, Niagara Fall flushing systems; there would have to be proper scenting sprays and several matchbooks in attendance. And God forbid I leave track marks; I’d rather be guilty of depleting our city’s water supply with a thousand flushes than leave any indication that I’m capable of excreting feces.

Farting – that’s another one. How come those hot babes in college, blond hair flinging, gaily laughing, would just let ‘er rip and then shout, “oops, I farted!” in case you hadn’t heard it. And they never fucking smelled, either – like unicorn farts, they were just cute funny noises, like the kind a baby makes and everyone would have the same reaction – just oohs and aahs and laugh. It’s so fucking unfair! Mine are loud, they are mean, they seek to destroy all living things within a 5-mile radius. That’s why I think I’m doomed to live alone, with my 70 olfactory-deprived cats. When one would happen to slip past my incredible internal defense system (think colon of steel), like, say, sleeping, it would set off car alarms and cause widespread panic of possible biological warfare (at least, my boyfriends thought so.)

Man breaking the world record with the highest jump from space? Meh. Inventor of a product that permanently eliminates farts and turns large, smelly poops into droplets of lavender rain? Get that man a medal of honor!

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