“Thoughts from the Pot” are the random musings of a husband. The thoughts and opinions presented below are not necessarily those of the host of this blog. Thank you for your understanding. Content Warning: The following story contains potty language and disturbing euphemisms. Reader discretion is advised. Read it; it’s funny.
In the true form of “Thoughts From the Pot,” I will now relay a poo story. If that makes you feel a bit squeamish, just know that I will treat this topic with Victorian sensitivity and utmost respect for the delicate, flower-like readers of this blog.
I wish this story was about me. However, I don’t possess the minerals to take things into my own hands (well-placed pun) the way that the man in this story did.
To make any character relatable, that character needs a name; we will call our protagonist (or antagonist, depending on how funny you think poop is) “Fiberman.”
A strong and handsome man, with a lantern jaw and country sensibilities; Fiberman owns large knives, wears plaid, but looks good in a suit. He is the owner of many leather-bound books, and his apartment smells of rich mahogany.
It was time to meet the parents. Fiberman’s beautiful young girlfriend had decided that he was worthy to take home for her brothers to check his teeth and make sure he didn’t play Dungeons and Dragons.
Fiberman and Beautiful Young Girlfriend (my names are awesome! So descriptive!) took a long flight. They ate delicious airport food, and Fiberman mentally prepared himself for his meeting with The Family.
They meet! They Eat! They Frolic in the Sun! Everything is going so well!
Fiberman he is a patient man and knows the limitations of his body. He is very aware of the storm brewing in his core. He has rumblies in his tumblies. The time of reckoning is drawing nigh. The unholy trinity of airport coffee, Burger King and the delightful seafood dinner Mom of Beautiful Young Girlfriend had prepared could only be ignored for a short while. The bells were ringing! The Piper Must Be Paid!
He waited until The Family was distracted by the fireflies and croquet in the soft green grass; then hastened to the loo. Fiberman made his peace with God and created a grunt sculpture, which would have aroused the jealousy of the Masters.
He filled out the necessary paperwork (which is a delightful euphemism for wiping his bottom) and flushed the toilet. While washing his hands, he looked over to make sure all of the vestiges of his masterpiece had been erased; they were not. Seated in its porcelain throne, the mighty king refused to be deposed. “NONE SHALL PASS!”
Fiberman’s hands began to sweat. They would surely have noticed his absence by now. Grunt sculptures take time. They were going to make JOKES! He thanked the Maker this house had more than one bathroom. Time slowed; Fiberman could hear his heart pounding in his ears. He flushed the toilet. He flushed again. He flushed a fourth time. Not a wiggle; panic set in.
His options were clear, his path split in twain; he could either leave the hulking meat biscuit for someone else, or he could reach in and destroy it, so that it would descend to its watery grave.
“I CURSE YOU, FOUL STINK DEMON, TO THE WATERY DEPTHS OF THIS SEPTIC SYSTEM! GO! GO! GO AND NEVER RETURN!”
He walked to the sink with his hands out, like a surgeon. As he washed, he looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes searching in vain for the man who used to be there. The old Fiberman was gone. There was now a new man, one willing to do what needed to be done. He knew that he was capable of so much more than he could ever have imagined. He was no longer a boy, he was a man.
The color drained from Fiberman’s face as he related this last part of the story to me; beads of sweat formed on his upper lip. A story that could cause this kind of emotional response had to be told. These are the generational stories; that grandkids tell about grandparents. These are what dreams are made of (just to be clear, dreams are made of stories, not poo — that would be gross) and how traditions are created.