For all things Tooks, and some things, er, relating to other people. As well as to other things. You get the picture.

09 March 2004

this is a borderline blog, a holler from the hinterlands, halfway between naughty and nice, between decent and in-. it's not for the faint of heart. so let the bloggee beware of the blogged of this blogger.

the thing i like best about living alone is the freedom to poop with the bathroom door open.

i know, i know: it's a vulgar thing to do, and an even vulgarer thing to say.

but it's true.

i make no concessions to the normal rules of decency since it's just me, solito, in my 1 br/1 ba. there's no point in being modest--who would notice?

my reasoning for this borderline activity runs thus: the opportunities for this socially-unacceptable behavior are few in this life (though who knows about the next life). at some point in the future, i may have roommates again, as i have in the past. such a shared-space living arrangement may be born of necessity--i may need someone to help share the rent (though hopefully in a slightly larger place). alternately, i may someday acquire the kind of permanent roommate they call a wife, or those shorter roommates popularly known as children. any of the foregoing varieties of accomodation-sharer would seem to prohibit open-door pooping, as i figure. there might be a small window in which to exploit the familiarity allowed by spousely cohabitation--who better than a loving wife to tolerate her new hubby's minor extravagances, after all. however, visits by or to the houses of parents and in-laws rule out unfettered disclosed elimination (as well as complicate normal conjugal relations in other ways). the last gasp for doing my business exposed to the house might come during the years when my potential children are still too small to be traumatized by the crudeness of the act. however, the propensity of tots to innocently enter an in-use bathroom could have tragic consequences for them and for their paternal pooper. at the risk of sending my more delicate readers away in a confused and disgusted huff, i offer this hypothetical dialogue to pre-construct the scene that might ensue were a small, curious person to stumble onto daddy doody-maker in the act:

wee one: tra-la-la, i'm so carefree, i like legos and grilled cheese and transformers and nana and papa and abuelo and abuela and bugs and snowflakes. (ENTERS BATHROOM.)

poops88: oh, no, pumpkin, don't come in here. daddy's taking care of business.

wee one: daddy, what's that smell? it hurts my eyes. i feel yucky. hey, what are you reading? let me see! i wanna see! read me a story! daddy, your legs are skinny and your tummy's fat.

poops88: listen, sweety, why don't you run along and see where mommy is.

wee one: no, daddy, i wanna stay here with you. let's play the pinchy game.

poops88: honey, daddy's toes are still sore from the last time we played the pinchy game. also, daddy's busy right now. he needs to concentrate very hard on what he's doing. why not go count the grass out in the yard some more?

wee one: but daddy, i wanna stay here with you! otherwise, i might grow up to resent you for all the bonding opportunities you let slip away. can you live with my neglect and mute hatred in your twilight years?

poops88: [sighing; closing maxim] no, i guess not, sweetie.

wee one: yay! now, let's play a different game. it's called "guess what i'm doin'."

poops88. ok, how do we play?

wee one: daddy, you're so dumb. you just try and guess what i'm doin'.

poops88: right. ok, let me see...are you counting to ten inside your head?

wee one: nope.

poops88: all right, are you biting your tongue?

wee one: nope.

poops88: hmmm....are you wistfully remembering the carefree joys of life before you had children?

wee one: hee-hee, no, daddy--you're so silly. you get one more guess.

poops88: i give up, love. what are you doin'?

wee one: i'm poopin', daddy! just like you!

poops88: but honey, i'm the one on the toilet. and you're supposed to be potty-trained.

wee one: i know, daddy. isn't this a fun game?

it's all a hypothetical, of course. but the possibility--the probability, even--of scenarios just like this one make me even more resolute to live out my days of bachelor defecation with as much relish as possible. my time is limited, my chances are numbered, but with the right attitude--and reading material--i can poop my way into the sunset.

do not go in there with me,


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