I think I may suffer from some sort of mental illness, because the most random things come out of my mouth and fingertips, and I don’t mean balloons, basketballs or broccoli. Out of the thin blue yonder I’m liable to say or type anything; the more profane the better. It may be a distant cousin of Tourette’s, but then it may be a brother to heavy cannabis use in the 80s and 90s. I personally believe I say the things I do is because of an accident that happened to me when I was eleven years old. It was so horrific an accident that I can’t remember a thing about it, nor can anyone in my family. Not only can no one remember the accident, the injuries I sustained must have healed immediately because I don’t recall them, either. It’s even been rumored that no such accident ever existed, but that hasn’t been proven beyond a reasonable doubt. It had to be an accident, I tell you. There’s no other way to explain it.
We lost our cable TV during a storm late last night, and when I called to report it, the customer service associate said that the entire neighborhood was affected. Without thinking, I replied with a sigh, “Well, it gives me great comfort to know I’m not the only one suffering.” The associate must have been starving for some sort of deviance because he almost choked on his headset. Why did I say that? Goodness gracious, I don’t enjoy the suffering of others! Well, there are a FEW exceptions to that statement, but they only involve children and small animals. But that’s beside the point. My attorney will field all inquiries from here on out.
There was the time I answered an unknown caller by screaming “THE BABY’S COMING! I CAN SEE HIS – WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?” and then hung up abruptly. Turns out the caller was a 63 year old man on his first day as a telemarketer in Emporia, Kansas. I settled out of court and agreed to pay his cardiologist fees. My favorite blurt memory is that time I found myself in the middle of a crowded elevator at the VA Hospital in Birmingham and said in a loud voice over the silence: “I suppose you all wonder why I invited you here today.” Everyone under 30 laughed. Actually, there was only one person younger than 30 in there. I basked in that gentleman’s delight while the other twenty nine passengers frowned and stared.
It doesn’t help that I especially like potty humor. I’ve been that way since antiquity. I mean, I’ve never crapped in one hand and wished in the other (contrary to what Wikipedia says) or actually flung feces (except for that time in Rio, and it was justified) or found myself staring lovingly at my bowel movements; I just enjoy a good poop joke. Here’s one: What do you call a little one who fills his diaper at a birthday celebration? A party-pooper! (I’ll wait here until you stop laughing) Actually, because I pride myself on having a college education, I like to tell strangers that I’m the world’s foremost amateur scatologist (a scatologist is someone who studies shite – really). That allows me to venture into areas the average pooper-trooper can’t go. For instance, I like to hang around the hair care aisle in Wal-Mart with a sign that says “BOYCOTT SHAMPOO! DEMAND REAL POO!” But mostly the title of scatologist allows me to make scientific speculations that are in no way scientific, like “Wow, your poop is bright red! I suggest you cut back on the Red Dye #3 for awhile. What? You think it’s blood? What school of scatology did you go to, buddy? Suck it up and stick some duct tape over it.”
That’s not all. Oh, no. I not only like to spout crap, I get a kick out of farting randomly in public. You would not believe the reactions I get. It makes cats jump, it makes kids giggle, it makes church congregations want to get so carried away in the Spirit they have no conscious awareness of the foul smell settling on them like pollen. Did you know you can train your anal sphincter to sound just like a bugle, trombone and tuba all at the same time? I especially love showing off my rendition of John Phillip Sousa’s “The Stars and Stripes Forever“. Once you experience it, you’ll never be the same again. Elevator farts won’t even make your eyes water anymore. I was going to mention some of my most memorable farts (like that time in the Christian Book Store when my sister got blamed for it) but that would require a much longer essay.
I don’t necessarily like this way I am. Oh, it provides me with a wealth of fun. But when I’m in bed at night and have no one to share my eclectic thoughts and observations with (like ‘How come I only itch down there when I’m trying to sleep?!’), or have to go through the humiliation again of having cops bust down my door because one of the neighbors said the stench of rotten meat and rotten feet were emanating from my place, I mean, it can get pretty lonely. Every morning I find my cat hiding in the garbage disposal and my dog scratching hunks out of the back door.
If you doubt my extreme weirdness (is ‘weirdness’ classified as a mental disease?), just look me up on Facebook or Twitter and hang around a few days. Maybe you’ll be the person who can help me with this disorder. If not, I’ve got a few disgusting jokes I want to share with you. It may take a few days to respond, as I am currently working as a test subject on some new toilet designs that are claiming to be Chimichanga proof. I will blow them out of the water, not so much because I have a particularly potent defecatory process, but because as a scatologist, I am adept in excremental mechanical physics, and can deliver a turd with the power of a 9 mm bullet to the weakest spot in any toilet and… well, you get the point.
Next time you’re in a grocery store, deliberately brush up against some random shopper, count to three then turn around, run up to them, grab their shoulders and shout in their face: “SAY SOMETHING!” No matter what they say, get all excited and yell “I CAN HEAR! IT’S A MIRACLE! THIS PERSON HEALED ME! EVERYONE, MAKE NOISE SO I CAN HEAR IT!” You’ll get a taste what I go through every single day.
Great, ain’t it?