3 posts tagged “humor”

I suppose if I were asked to name one thing I don't understand, I'd say the courtesy flush. As stiffly defined by wikipedia, the courtesy flush is when, "in deference to others using the bathroom, toilet users who have defecated [...] flush, despite the fact that they have not yet finished sanitizing themselves with toilet paper, merely so that the exposure of others to the aroma of feces is minimized."

It's not common for me to perform the courtesy flush, but the other day I was forced to act. While rocking forward onto the balls of my feet, I performed a perfect hip flex, snaking my left arm across my body as my bashful ass hovered expectantly over the bowl, my sheepish testicles swinging pendulously in the muggy breeze of the overhead fan. I quickly depressed the lever, sending a fresh 1.2 gallons of gloriously sweet spring water into the swampy bowl below.

Now when I say "forced to act", I'm not speaking speciously. Moments before, my dialated o-ring had borne a solid log of shit long as an ostrich leg and veiny. So grand this delivery that it proudly stood, its head above the water, proclaiming its existence with a mocha-corn pompador and a scent sinister and alluring.

I was immediately queasy. The resulting courtesy flush was not only one for me, but for others in the building. For them and those that would follow.

But instead of returning to my festive post-movement mood, I began to feel lost, lonely, abandoned. I began to look around for causes, confused.

There are moments when you realize that you'll probably do all right as a parent. My epiphany came as I was settling the tips of my pale cheeks safely around the rim of the toilet seat.

My inexplicable uneasiness wasn't some random fluctuation of my aura, but instead my tightly honed nesting instinct kicking in. Without something to jealously guard and protect, my perch on the pot had suddenly become unnecessary. Like a robin returning to a newly eggless nest, I was forlorn.

Normally after dropping a deuce, I sit above it, contemplative and regal. What will it be when it grows up, I wonder. Will it meet lots of new friends in the pipes? Will it one day have little shits of its own?

Not this time.

This time, as I waited impatiently for the flecks of fecal matter to dry so I could scrape them into the water, I gave the courtesy flush a new name: SPDS. Sudden Poop Death Syndrome. Like SIDS, from which it derives its name, SPDS grants you the fleeting joy of a new arrival, only to sweep it away swiftly into the sewers on a bed of gentle refuse.

When I finally stood, sweaty and sad and finished, the only thing I had to show for my effort was the remnants of my cleaning stuck to the quilted two ply TP like darkened paint chips.

The worst part is that I didn't even have the opportunity for a proper send-off. Usually, I give my stools an encouraging speech and a warm wave before setting them off into the future, like a proper father should. Instead, hobbled by my jeans and shameful of my uncleanliness, I refused to watch as the undertow took my dung under.

Was my excrement aware of my embarassment, my shame? I'll never really know. And that may be the hardest part.

In closing, I don't understand the need or purpose for the courtesy flush. Its practice is despicable and should be immediately abolished. Together we can bring the hushed anguish of SPDS to a sudden and swift close. Thank you.

--
Written on spec for the B. Magee, Bellingham's only home-grown four-page reader of note.

So, over the weekend, Sally and I threw the lamest party ever. There have been others, easily, that ended more melodramatically, perhaps even cinematically, but none more lame than us.

See, Sally and I have been house-sitting for her sister, who is away with her husband in Thailand right now. We thought, "what better time for a house party, than when it's at someone else's house? What better time and manner to celebrate life than with plausible deniabilty and alcohol?"

We purchased a keg, we made snacks, we sent out invitations, and then we waited. Patiently. Oh, so very patiently. And, really, that's all that happened.

The only people who came were Megan and her roommate, and I think if we had not seen them earlier in the day they might have had other plans.

If you've never seen a house prepped up for a party that will never arrive, then you don't know sadness. Say what you will about the holocaust, but at least those camps were full of people. Munched upon snack trays splayed across the counter. The slow settling of ice around the keg. The most depressing game of beer pong EVER (seriously, four people around 12 plastic cups of beer on a ping pong table does not a party make). Bare floors that reflect the funky beats from the stereo towards the ceiling and back again. Nothing moving, nothing happening, the house static, waiting desperately for dynamicism that was never to arrive. Morose, Sally and I got crunk and passed out in front of the tv.

In an effort to redeem ourselves, we decided to try again the following day. I'm happy to report that people actually came to this party, and a good time was had by all.

Last night, I was watching television with Sally. An uncommon occurance, as we don't actually have cable at our apartment. More specifically then:  we  were trying to sort out the snow from the show, while the ever-efficient Super Nanny sorted out the family affairs of the inept and naive.

The thing I don't like about Super Nanny is that a lot of people aren't aware of the various machinations behind the scenes. See, Jo, the super nanny in question, isn't actually British. She's actually a midwestern actress who stumbled onto the gig after trying out for a crest commercial (she didn't get the part, obviously).

While her accent on the show is completely fake, Jo does such a good job that it's almost imperceptible. The best part is that when they script the out-takes, they often have her British accent hinder the pronounciation of American words. Hijinx ensue. It's not funny so much as it is an absolutely amazing acting job.

The part that bothers me though is that the producers of the show strive for versimillitude; aim for capturing the action instead of creating it. And yet none of Super Nanny's actions or advice is spontaneous. All of it is pre-scripted and vetted by three nationally recognized psychologists before going to air, so as to protect the network against lawsuits.

That willingness to bend the truth is one of the reasons why I don't miss television anymore. The other is commercials. I don't know how, but I used to passively accept commercials. I'd watch them, or not; maybe change the channel, maybe watch it all the way through if it were sufficiently entertaining. But I never really thought about the ways in which they were selling to me, what premises they were forcing me to accept, and how incredibly gauche the ads were willing to be in order to sell a product.

For instance, M&M's. Sweet candy that melts in your mouth, not in your hand. See? Didn't even have to think about it. Perfect marketing. Anyway, they have this commercial where a group of burly, sweaty men are tucked in a well-lighted ship galley, rowing. Up in front are the two spokecandies, red and yellow, rowing. The punchline? The galley slaves sing "Don't rock the boat baby."

First off, the Hues Corporation wrote a shitty song that somehow managed to get airplay and worm its way deep into your subconscious. So deep, in fact, that if you were to stand up right now and sing the chorus, at least one other person will stand up and exclaim: "Oh, fuck! It's in my head. My head!" and then pass out. So, you know, pretty deep.

Secondly, it's a racist joke. You know why? Because all the rowers are white. Because you'd never--NEVER--see that same commercial with minority rowers. I don't want to say that M&M's are promoting slavery while at the same time mocking the terror and awfulness of the trade in order to sell delicious candy-coated chocolates, but if not me, who?

- Tyson