Thursday, July 07, 2005

We're All Brits Today

I'd like to take this space to offer condolences to the residents of London and environs who have been horribly affected by today's bombings of the Underground, and to offer my respect for the patient, dignified and solid manner in which they have all conducted themselves.

For those who would like to join me, I'll forward these messages to the British Consulate.

Wishing peace to all,

Madame Poissoniere


At 11:42 AM, Blogger Charlotte Smith said...

Thanks for this opportunity, Sally.

To all British citizens & also those in spirit -

My deepest condolences to all of you on this tragic day. I admire how you have not allowed fear and hate to overwhelm you so far, and I encourage you to stay strong. If anyone is to be punished for this act, let it be those directly responsible and no-one else. In times like these we must come together as human beings to mourn and cope and eventually to get back to our lives as much as possible. Though I am not a religious person myself, I leave you with the words of John Donne:
"any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."

At 11:43 AM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

my sympathies and thoughts go out to you. truly sorry for your loss.

At 11:44 AM, Anonymous r@d@r said...

dear neighbors of great britain,

my family's thoughts are with your families. while anxiously awaiting instructions for how ordinary citizens may be of any assistance or comfort, in the meantime we offer our humble condolences.

At 12:16 PM, Anonymous DeniseH said...

To all British citizens,
My deepest condolences to all of you on this tragic day, and always my admiration for your strength and spirit.

At 12:45 PM, Blogger malletgirl02 said...

To the citizens of Britian you all have my deepest condolences. Through I hardly ever pray I will pray for the victims and their familes.

At 1:32 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

We're all Londoners today.

Deepest condolences on this horrible day. I'm praying for the city's continued courage and strength. May the families of the lost be comforted, may the injured be healed in body and soul, and may all the rescue workers be sustained in their noble work.

God bless you all.

At 2:17 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

I am sorry for your losses. The people of London are in my prayers.


At 3:04 PM, Anonymous Sara Stewart said...

My deepest condolences to the Londoners today, as I write from London, Ontario, Canada, sitting by the banks of the Thames, and thinking of my friends in England. Best wishes, peace, good fortune, and courage to you all, and my sincerest admiration for all of you who, with aplomb and reserve, faced dangerous, bloody, and horrifying situations this morning. Well done. My thoughts and best wishes are with you.

At 3:40 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Deepest condolences and wishes for the best.

At 9:02 AM, Blogger DWD said...

Hey Sallyh!

I am doing my best to leave tracks now.

At 9:02 AM, Blogger DWD said...

Hey sallyh, I am leaving tracks now.

At 8:31 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Many of the stories on PoopReport deal with heinous anal difficulties. Terms like "rancid butt paste," "screaming anal demons," and "oh the humanity" are common. However, this tale has nothing to do with a single butt. The fact remains that no single intestinal tract, no matter how evil its output, can ever compare with an entire lake of shit.

When I got out of college in 2002, I had a beautiful history degree from a good school, good grades, great experience, and an economy that stank like, well, a lake of shit. As probably did many readers who emerged from the ivied halls around then, I ended up temping for a number of outfits. One of these was a major Boston-area university. Now, many universities will put their name, seal, motto, etc., on shirts, ties, glasses, and mirrors so that alums, moms, and dads -- and occasionally students -- will buy them. However, this Boston-area university, which to protect the innocent I'll call Newton Catholic University, was, simply put, a product whore. They put their seal on everything -- books, folders, stationary, golf-tees, golf-balls, footballs, basketballs, wastebaskets, sweaters, sweatshirts, tee-shirts, tank-tops, thongs, boxer shorts, and so forth and so forth, ad infinitum; to the extent that one could entirely outfit one's home in Newton Catholic University stuff.

The bookstore through which all the merchandise passed was in McDougal Hall. I worked on the backside of the bookstore, out by the loading dock. Day in and day out, as Christmas approached and eager members of the extended Newton Catholic University community purchased bits of Newton Catholic University stuff and wanted it shipped places, I would stand at a computer, receiving packages to which I would affix UPS mailing labels and then drop into bins to go out to the dock. Working theoretically in concert -- but most often against each other -- were my twin bosses: Shamus O'Malley, a genial Irish Korean War veteran who ran the book and tchotchke division; and Tashban, the Arab lord of the clothing department. Shamus was everything a genial Irish Korean War veteran should be -- on the first day he liberated me from having to wear a tie on the job.

Arabs have been unfairly portrayed by American media as either marvelously good and wise or deeply wicked and crafty; but Tashban was neither of these things. In short, he was an annoying, nasty weasel who could best be summed up with a comparison to a sleazy cruise director. Technically Shamus was lord of all of us, including Tashban; but Tashban had plenty of room to maneuver under Shamus' lax directorship. I was supposed to ship packages for Shamus first and Tashban second, but Tashban (Tashie for short) often liked to come over to the loading dock with a bin full of wrapped sweaters and other clothing items and bully/cajole/annoy me into doing his stuff first. Shamus would catch wind of this, go over and give Tashie a ration of shit, and make him quit for a while.

Shamus was also lord over Tucker Boy. Tucker Boy was one of several mentally challenged individuals who worked alongside me. For the most part these were good people who attempted to tackle their chores with limited intellect but honesty and diligence; but Tucker Boy was the SPED from hell. His job was to keep the bookstore and loading dock area clean using a backpack vacuum cleaner -- a job he generally began around 8:30 every morning but seldom finished. He seldom finished because fairly shortly he would become disgruntled and fed up. Shamus would try to keep him in line by asking, "How are you, Tucker Boy?" To which Tucker Boy would reply, "I'M HAVING A SHITTY DAY SHAMUS!!" This was the beginning of the end because within an hour of the first "shitty day" reply, Tucker Boy would be in the loading dock men's room, pants around his ankles, a turd somewhere on the floor, Vienna Sausage erect, with Tucker Boy giving said Vienna Sausage a good rubdown, all the time accompanying it with "I'M HAVING A SHITTY DAY SHAMUS!" Shamus would go running off to the dock, shouting, "I TOLD YOU NOT TO DO THAT, TUCKERBOY!!!"

Soon, however, it became clear that Tucker Boy was not the only one having a shitty day. On about my third day of work the loading dock began to smell distinctly odd and like shit. Not just an idle mouse pellet in a corner -- no, full-blown shit. We complained, but because the students and parents in the front couldn't smell it, nothing was done. By day two the pong was much stronger, and industrial air fresheners were brought in and placed around the bookstore. (Imagine a vaporizer spraying out a cinnamon-scented cloud. The overall effect was that front of the store smelled great and the loading dock -- you guessed it -- smelled like cinnamon-flavored shit.)

A questing lad with a college degree, I went to Shamus who, like any good commanding officer, spelled it out for me. "McDougal Hall was built with two connected sewage systems," he said. "One for kitchen slops and dish water and the other for piss and shit. The kitchen one broke last week, so the college shut it off and routed everything into the piss and shit drain. Well, the piss and shit drain couldn't handle the extra load, and now every time you flush it's going directly into the sub-basement. The college figured the dirt floor in the sub-basement would just absorb everything, but it hasn't. We're sitting on a shit lake."

He leaned in conspiratorially with this last: "Curtis, if it gets any worse, I'm taking a sick day until it's fixed."

Shamus was a war veteran. He had earned the right not to labor feet above a great shit lagoon. But what about me? If Shamus left, I was stuck with Tucker Boy on the one side and Tashie on the other. What would that be like?

I didn't have long to wait because the smell had redoubled itself by day four; and Shamus indeed took a powder. Day five dawned. Outside it was around twenty degrees, inside it was about eighty, the bookstore's muzak system played the same fifteen 1950's Christmas hits over and over, and we labored in a cloud of cinnamon-tinged shit stink. By noon Tucker Boy had taken two shits, dropped his vacuum cleaner, and gone home with tightie-whities full of turd and spooge. I was the only thing moving on the loading dock, and I was knee deep in Tashie's motherf*&%ing sweatshirts.

Amazingly, I didn't leave -- I needed cash for Christmas presents. So I stuck it out. And so did the college. Faced with a staff now composed of temps and Tashie, they cranked up the air fresheners, cranked up the Bing Crosby, and denied a problem existed. I worked for a week like this, during which time I would run out into the freezing New England day to gulp big lungfuls of clean air.

The end came on my last day. Outside, it poured. A truck arrived. Workmen in HAZMAT suits drilled four eight-inch diameter holes into the loading dock floor. The stench was now an eye-burning, nose-searing reek. Mother Theresa herself would have tossed her curry. Hoses went into the holes, and for six hours a Clean Harbors truck slurped up a thick sewage fribble; on the seventh hour -- this was a Catholic school, after all -- gallons of chlorine went into the former shit lake. The smell of swimming pool replaced the evil stench, and I went home happy for a well deserved Christmas gorging.

At 8:32 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

The Phantom shitter has struck again.

At 9:28 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Driving down the road, I was talking to my Dad on the cell phone, reminiscing about a shared experience in which a restroom was violated. Don't worry -- this memory is just the prelude to the storm.

Dad uses a cane and doesn't get around very fast. He has diabetes and, at times, gets very sick. On this particular day, my wife and my mother kept urging Dad to eat. Finally they dragged him off to a Boston Market and bought him a dinner with a fruit salad. He got started.

Dad was dutifully shoveling the fruit salad down and drinking his diet pop. He looked a little green around the gills and seemed shaky. "Dad," I said, "do you need to go to the bathroom?"

"Yes son," he replied. "I think I do." As we slowly made our way to the shitter, I noticed that there was one of those "restroom closed" cones outside; but just then a strapping youth with a mop, rubber gloves, and rubber boots came out and started to mop the dining area. I propped the door open for Dad. He took two steps into the room and began to projectile vomit. He staggered a few more steps, leaned against the wall by the urinal, and proceeded to vomit fruit salad all over the wall and into the urinal. The retching was horrible. The dripping fruit and stomach acid was oozing viscously down the wall.

I have not thrown up since 1984; and I managed to not join in this day. I have a will of iron concerning my stomach. I offered Dad a wad of paper towels and asked if he was feeling all right. He said that he was. We got back out to the dining room just as Mom and the wife were finishing. As I held the door for everyone, I saw a guy wearing a tie and a nametag watching us leave. I said to him, "I just came from your restroom... I think someone was sick in there." Then we quickly left.

Coincidently, or not, that particular Boston Market closed within a month, and is now a Jack in the Box.

Anyway, Dad and I were laughing our asses off recalling this father/son experience. As I said, I have an iron will concerning my stomach. My bowels, on the other hand, respond to stimuli such as laughter by uncoiling. I started to develop some severe cramping and had to tell Dad that I'd call him back -- I was going to find a place to "do some paperwork."

Driving around, I had been munching on peanuts; mayhap a few too many. Peanuts are a butt bane that usually gets the old poop pump working in a matter of hours. Today, though, laughing set things in motion sooner than anticipated. I desperately thought of fast food places, hotels, etc., on the road ahead that might be relied upon to have a clean restroom. I really like a well-maintained shitter. I finally settled on Fred Meyers, a major variety store that keeps its commodes in good repair. Their advertising motto: "You'll Find It at Freddy's." I have had a good experience at that particular store in the past, and knew where to park and how to get where I needed to go.

I found a spot and slowly managed to walk into the store without soiling myself. As I entered, I discovered that they had remodeled since the last time I was there. A little ways in, I saw the new hallway with a sign directing me down the road to relief. I was really sweating; the effort of clenching my cheeks was considerable. I tried to walk nonchalantly, sweating and trembling like a junkie en route to his next fix.

I shuffled into the restroom. They had redecorated with black tile and stainless steel -- very attractive and conducive to the work I had to do. I briefly noted the décor and, even in my troubled state, was pleased with the new look. Then an ominous sign then presented itself: a pool of water on the floor. Aghast, I noticed that there was solid matter in the water.

But at this point, there was no returning. Any other restroom might as well have been on the moon, as I was physically incapable of further travel.

I went to the end of the row of stalls, my preferred work area being the handicapped stall. I like room to get my business done. The handicapped pooper is usually a little elevated, and you have rails to grasp when laboring at your stool. But it was occupied.

The next stall was the source of the puddle on the floor. The toilet was cascading water from a frothy pool of soggy paper interlaced with brown flecks of excrement. I shuddered and moved on. The last stall was my only hope. I tried the door, but it was locked, and I heard some horrible groaning coming from within.

I went to the sink area and started to say my mantra: "Don't shit your pants. Don't shit your pants." It was not working. My bowels were rumbling. Sweat continued to pour down my fevered brow. I prepared a wet wad of paper towels so that I could give the seat a cleansing. Still nobody came out of the two occupied stalls. There was no other bathroom in the entire store. Too cramped to escape, I had no choice.

I fought waves of pain as I made my way to the middle stall. Little shimmers danced in front of my eyes. I gingerly opened the door to see the same putrid mix of feces and paper slowly churning and dripping onto the floor. The seat was raised, as if mocking me. This would have to be a stand-up job.

I barely managed to get my pants to my knees, hold them up off the floor, and more or less aim my ass at the bowl. I grasped the paper dispenser for balance and hoped for the best. A stream of goo the consistency of thick milkshake shot out of my ass. Muscle spasms rippled up and down my body. My knees were shaking. I had no thought other than ridding myself of the load of excrement. A high-pressure gusher of butt mud blasted out. I could feel bits of peanuts scraping my tender chute. Oh sweet Jesus... it was practically orgasmic.

It was over in a matter of seconds, although it seemed as if it had lasted for hours. What mattered was that it was over.

I surveyed myself as I slowly came back into focus. I had one hand holding my pants and underwear up off the floor and away from the toilet; the other was clenching the toilet paper dispenser, still clutching the wad of paper towels. That was good, as there was no usable toilet paper in the stall -- the previous tenant had thoughtfully fouled the remnants of the roll before he left. The towels would have to do. Fortunately the force of the flow had kept my winking brown eye nearly pristine. I managed to get my pants up without becoming fouled. Good job!

I turned to survey my work. (Why do we look?) My aim was true. However, my calculation as to velocity of the projectile was not. I discovered why I had not shat on my pants: my peanut brittle-colored blast had overshot the mark and struck squarely on the hinge area of the seat.

I heard sounds indicating that there was a line of people waiting with needs, perhaps as urgent as mine had been. There was no way I could escape without them thinking that I was the author of the fouled stall. I looked at the pile of stench sitting on the back rim. I closed the seat and voilà! The evidence was out of sight, squashed between the seat and rim. Curiously enough, the seat appeared to be squeaky clean. I had only assumed that it was as foul as the rest of the fetid cubicle. It didn't matter much, though; I could not have sat on it without my manly organs dangling in the foul brew that was roiling in the bowl.

I stepped boldly out of the stall, quickly bolted past the three or so people who were waiting in line, and left the store. I drove to a fast food place and washed my hands.

I then called Dad and told him about the incident, and we started laughing again.

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