The Spoon Prognosis: Healthy, Constipated

I'd like to calm any nervous readers out there: The Spoon is not on hiatus. However, The Spoon's chief operating station (ie: my computer) suffered through a medley of hiccups and coughs that took a couple of weeks to clear up. Everything has been successfully resolved and you can expect much more stuff to grace these virtual pages as I push out some creative backlog.

A podcast is in the works... but I probably shouldn't even be talking about it

One item to expect is an upcoming movie review which I've already begun podcasting about with my secret team. It's still early in development and I probably shouldn't even be talking about it, but I'm excited about the opportunity to branch out and touch you with my voice as well as my words.

Stay tuned.

A Day in the Life

Since nobody shared their deserted island movies with me, I have no choice but to write about my poops.

Now that I have a job, my poops are no longer my own. I must dole them out carefully when I’m not helping customers or daydreaming about Elisha Cuthbert and tartar sauce.

Mmmmm... Tartar sauce....

I’ve realized that poops can be a highly valued commodity in the workforce; they’re kind of like brown, stinky tokens that can be exchanged for a free break. I mean, given a choice, every boss in the world will want you to take a dump in a toilet instead of on a customer’s chest. That’s just good service. And by carefully timing your bowel movements, you can effectively double your break time. Granted, you’ll be spending that time perched on a toilet straining your little heart out, but beggars can’t be choosers.

The unspoken rule of customer service

My personal bowel movements are pretty regular. Meaning they regularly come when I’m helping three different customers at the same time and there’s nobody around to help me. My poops are particularly attracted to stress, I think, and arrive as soon as I feel pressured. Maybe it’s nature’s way of telling me to “hurry up” and get rid of these other people so I can take care of my own “business.”

I work with a lot of women so I’m particularly careful of leaving incriminating poop stains on the toilet seat. I figure that I will be the prime suspect in any bowel chicanery since men naturally have the dirtiest butts. To avoid unsightly smears I always create a makeshift seat cover using spit and toilet paper. The single bathroom stall is so small that it’s impossible to sit straight down and instead I have to move down at a left to right angle. But if I move too quickly then the resulting air-flow knocks over my MacGuyvered seat cover and then the risk of smear stains rises exponentially. To combat this I have to hover my butt mere inches from the seat at a roughly 45-degree angle. That’s when I snap my butt down with the speed of an attacking cobra snake.

I'm so fast, I just pooped right now while you were reading this

I’d tell you about the rest of my day, but it’s pretty inconsequential compared to this.

You've got to be sh*tting me

I usually don't write about my personal life because it's not all that interesting even to me, but yesterday something happened that almost defies description and will almost surely destroy any shred of respect you may have had for me.

Before you hear my tragic tale, a couple personal notes must be addressed.

1) I'm lactose sensitive. I'm not completely lactose intolerant, but whenever I drink milk or eat ice cream I'm playing Russian Roulette with my sphincter.

2) I sneeze very hard. On several occasions my sneeze has been mistaken for a cough and El Nino. It's really strong.

Okay, now we’re ready.

My sad tale begins like any other day. I woke up, took a shower and proceeded to dry myself off very thoroughly. I then put on my pants one leg at a time. Next I played videogames for one hour (yes, I am currently unemployed) and then decided to meet my parents for lunch.

At noon, we sat down at a restaurant together and ordered food. I ordered a fish sandwich while my mom ordered some ice cream. I ate my sandwich and also some of the ice cream. This would prove to be a very, very big mistake.

After lunch we went to the mall, my dad taking a nap in the car while my mom and I walked into Macy’s.

We chatted amiably, completely unaware of the bombshell about to descend upon us.

I opened my mouth to make a witty remark (of course), but halfway through it turned into a sneeze. However, without my conscious approval, my sphincter had been playing Russian Roulette and lost - at the exact same moment as my sneeze.

You can probably guess what happened next.

I pooted on myself.

I deftly alerted my mother through a complex series of hoots, grunts, and a brief, “I pooted on myself.” God bless her soul, she immediately ran to buy me fresh underthingies.

I then proceeded to get lost – twice – on my way to the bathroom, all the while walking like an extra from Thriller.

Use your imagination

Armed with a fresh set of undies, I planted myself in a bathroom stall and set to work on cleaning myself up. I got in a few good wipes when a very large and very loud man walked in. The stall I was in had cracks the size of Nebraska so I froze like a frightened deer and prayed that he couldn’t see or smell me. My naked legs quivered a little, but I patiently waited as my new bathroom mate urinated and continuously muttered, “oh god, oh god, oh god.”

About ten minutes later he stopped urinating and left me alone to wipe away my pooty stains and shame.

Later that evening, my mom told me to put my new underwear away in my room (salvation had come in a three pack). I replied that I didn’t ever want to see them again because of the shameful manner in which they had entered my life.

My mom turned to me and said, “ You shouldn’t say that about your new underwear, they saved your butt.” And then she laughed at me.

Attack of the Poo Monster


Is there anything more frustrating/disgusting than a clogged toilet? This morning I spent nearly twenty minutes attempting to flush my bodily excesses down the tubes. As I write this, they continue to quietly mock me.
Unfortunately, this isn't the first time this has happened. Way back when I was about twelve I spent the night at a friend's house. I happily did my business and turned around to flush it down. To my horror, the toilet did not flush. Oh no, it did not flush. My friend later claimed it was the largest poo he ever saw. I couldn't look my friend's mom in the eye for at least a week.

Fast forward about ten years. I was at a friend's dorm party when I answered the call of the wild. Except there was no toilet paper, only paper towels, which some of you may know is a certain path to toilet cloggetry. I did indeed take that toilet to Cloggsville and spent the following half hour dumping overflow into the tub like a sailor on a sinking ship. I had to pull a MacGuyver in there to avoid a complete disaster and turned the rug into a doorstopper while the trash can became an emergancy bucket. I eventually contained the fallout, but nobody ever truly defeats a pluggled toilet.


Remember, flushing is like voting. Do it early and often.