I recently had a deep thought.
Life is lived one week at a time.
–Tom B. Taker
Let’s take a look at a typical week then, shall we? We’ll use my patented Poop Colored Glasses with Capitalism Tint.
In other words, this look is founded on a work-based viewpoint.
A lot of work-based people tend to favor Friday. They have it up on some kind of pedestal. Well, not me! Why? Because Friday is the work day closest to Monday. And it’s still a day where you actually go to work. Sorry, Friday. That puts you squarely in the Shit bin.
“Holy Time” is my description of the time between Friday at 5pm and midnight. Seven golden hours of goodness. This section of time is the most removed from going back to work. Unfortunately it’s also the smallest damn piece of the whole friggin’ pie.
Saturday is a pretty good day. It’s preceded by Holy Time, which is good, and to its credit, is also followed by a day that is not work. Therefore this day is “Good.” That’s high praise from the likes of me.
Sunday is a bit of a quandary. Since it is followed by a work day, it’s a very melancholy time. Yeah, it’s not as bad as work, but it is being chased by an ominous black cloud of death. Technically speaking, Sunday is a day tainted by evil. But it’s still not work. So this day we will classify as Tainted and/or Mediocre.
This graph is actually incomplete. It’s missing the slice that consists of the last two hours before bed on a Sunday night. This slice, if it had been shown, would have been represented with the terminology “Despair.” Technically it’s know worse than any work night yet is somehow amplified by the freedom that was just tasted.
The rest of the 168 hours in the life unit known as the “week” fall into a bucket known simply as Shit. This is, by far, the biggest piece of the life of pie. And I think that pretty much sums it up.
Bird Ingestion Nth Guano Objectives #poop
In our excrement we are pleased to bring you this latest piece of coverage in our ongoing series All Things Poop. No one covers poop like us.
Sure, BINGO is glitzy, glamorous and loads of fun, but it has never been made accessible to the hip under-80 crowd. Until now.
Once upon a time some touchy-feely bleeding-heart bastards had kittens about cock fighting and criminalized that great and wonderful sport. Suddenly the human race was left to wither on the barren wastes in search of another intrepid activity worthy of our abscessions.
If you’ve been pining for the next great bird-oriented sport, well, wait no longer! Your prayers have been answered! No more living on a wing and a prayer.
Is the sky falling? Nope. It’s just Chicken Little. And he’s here for a very good reason.
Continue reading →
Into the Bowels of the Bowl
I was flushed with excitement when I made the team. I almost flipped my lid. Not one to fly off the handle, I was resolute and went about the business of doing my job. This consisted mainly of navigating a dinghy about a very small body of water. I’d sing as I tackled the task. “I sail the ocean blue and my saucy shit’s a beauty. I’m a sober man and true, and attentive to my doody. Ahoy! Ahoy!”
For I had set my sights high. I was the man lucky enough to know his own destiny. One day, if I worked hard enough, my teammates and I, as members of the Pack Ten conference, would play in The Toilet Bowl. Perhaps not the bowl sponsored by Tostitos but at least the one that had Ex-Lax, Preparation H and Beano.
And we made it, too, quite literally by the seat of our pants.
[/end of dream sequence]
Blob “Constas” Pation here, and today we take a look at the storied career of Tom B. Taker, a man so dedicated to his
crap craft that he has worked the last 11 years within spitting distance of toilets. It’s a story ripped from the anals of history. We caught up with the man as he set out to maintain this blistering pace and go for the world record of twelve years in a row.
Continue reading →
Silence of the Garbage
Every story has a beginning…
Ack. God, I hate that shit. Of course every story has a beginning. No shit, Sherlock. And every journey begins with a single step. Blah blah blah. Unless, of course, it’s The Never Beginning Story. I’ll bet that story doesn’t have a frickin’ beginning. Because it’s never beginning. Hells yeah! That makes sense to me. I may have to do a 42-part web series on the never beginning story. I’d like that.
Here, let me take a crack at this sort of nonsense. “Every story can be told at least two ways.” Cryptic enough for ya? Whatever. This is my story. And it all begins on a Tuesday morning not too long ago…
I was still groggy. It was completely dark out and something had awakened me. I realized someone was there, a few feet away, standing in the darkness, watching me.
I knew it was my wife. Through the plexiglass that separated us (conveniently sprinkled with air holes) I sensed that see she was angry. Her nostrils flared. She was about to speak.
“Don’t,” I said, interrupting her before she started. “Something has gone wrong, hasn’t it?”
“Good morning, Tom,” she said. “Yes, something has gone wrong.”
“Closer,” I said. “Closer, please.”
She took a step forward and the light from my room illuminated her a bit more fully.
“Tom, you …,” she started, but I sniffed at the air between us, thick with tension, and she hesitated.
“You don’t smell of garbage,” I said. “Sometimes you do, but not today. No, not today. It’s my job isn’t it? A man’s job, but sometimes you still have to do it yourself. You stand there in your fancy shoes and try to pretend your husband always does his share of the chores. But today he didn’t, did he?”
I sniffed at the air again, longer this time. “No, he didn’t. And neither did you. But the smell of garbage is still there. Not from you, no. From the kitchen. From the bin that your husband didn’t take out. Isn’t that right, Clarice?”
“Yes, it’s Tuesday morning, isn’t it? Monday is when he takes out the trash. Because we all know what happens if he doesn’t.”
“Do you know what you look like standing there with your fancy shoes and your faith in your husband? You look like a rube, Clarice.”
Her eyes showed momentary surprise. She was shaking now.
“Last night you heard it, didn’t you? The awful sound of your garbage not being picked up.”
I pressed on.
“You still wake up sometimes, don’t you? Wake up in the dark and hear the silence of the garbage not being picked up?”
“And you think, if you could somehow motivate poor Tom, that garbage would be gone by now, don’t you? You think if the garbage was gone, you wouldn’t wake up in the dark ever again to that awful silence of the garbage not being picked up.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
“Thank you, Clarice.”
Eh? The other way of telling the story? It goes like this: “Tuesday morning my wife told me I forgot to take out the trash.” Now you tell me. Which version did you like better?
Who let the logs out? Uh, uh!
If you don’t follow my Twitter feed you’re only getting half of the story…
Sometimes events so important will happen only in Twitterville so they must be told again.
This is one of those times.
Pants pulled down
Around ankles on the ground
On the toilet I sit
Good taste dictates that I omit
Hang on for the true story of what happened this very week.
This post has been rated DNR (Do Not Read) by the BPAA (Blog Post Association of America).
Warning: This post is intended for infantile audiences only. It may contain violence, sexual content, drug use and/or strong language. You must be IQ 17 or higher to read this post. By reading this post you are certifying that your IQ is at least 17. Do not read this post around meal time.
This is what I call a NEXUS post. How does a post get elevated to NEXUS status? It must meet a stringent set of criteria as specified by humble Abyssian scientists. These criteria are:
Only a post that meets all criteria will justify the NEXUS designation. This is how we work to guarantee a quality reading experience for you, our loyal reader. We are committed to entertainment.
Sadly, what you are about to read is true. No embellishment or artistic license here. Not this time. (Yeah, I’m breaking the rules just this once.)
I started the new job back in October 2010. Like the little engine who thought he could, I thought I could avoid the bathroom. I tried and tried. I really did. But after a few weeks I finally gave in. What can I say? I’m only (partially) human.
The first thing I noticed was the door handle was broken. It wouldn’t lock.
As spooky as that was, things went fairly well. If the door was closed and the fan was on (it’s tied to the light switch) then you knew the room was in use. You didn’t go in.
Until seven months later. Until this week.
Tom B. Taker
At last my training is complete. Coworker just walked in on me using the toilet. Door has broken lock. Get me off this fucking planet!!!
11 May via Twitter for iPhone
Yep. Female coworker, walking around like a brain-dead idiot, flung the door open to the restroom while I was … erm, how shall I say? Doing my best thinking!
Yep. Believe it.
Yep. There is a Hell. And I’m already dead. I’m a permanent resident. And I’m looking forward to next week’s annexation vote. Be afraid if you already live within Hell’s urban growth boundary. You’re next, motherfucker.
Remarkably I took it fairly well. I imagine it was a much worse experience for her than it was for me.
Yep. Seven fucking months with employees and it never once occurred to the boss to get the lock on the bathroom door fixed. So yeah, I blame him. I blame him hard. Hate isn’t supposed to be good, but it’s a healthy hate.
You’d think an incident like this would be enough to spur him into action. You’d be wrong. He’s the slob of the century. Reminder: He felt compelled to tell the rest of us why washing your hands after using the restroom is a “waste of time.” One time he was in the bathroom and I heard the toilet flush. Within half a second the door opened and he hopped out. Yep. No sounds of running water. He then came directly to me, held up his hand and said, “High five!”
Holy shit. Who thinks up scenarios like this? Not only am I an atheist, I actively pray there isn’t a God. Because, let’s face it, I don’t want to meet whoever thought this shit up.
But wait. There’s more!
Tom B. Taker
Holy mother of God!!! The toilet walk-in thing just happened AGAIN. This time by the boss. I love being surrounded by zombies. #walkamongus
12 May via Twitter for iPhone
This time the boss himself graced me with his presence. Yeppers. I shit you not. (Although I was shitting at the time.)
This one got me. It got me good. I was so fucking pissed.
I came out and the boss was gone. Coworker filled me in. “He went to see the landlord about fixing the lock.”
YOU FUCKING THINK?!?!?!?
I was so pissed I got the shakes. They went full throttle for about two hours. I had to get out of there. I took a late lunch. I left the building That helped a little. But four hours later, I was still so upset I still had the shakes. Did I mention I was fucking pissed?
God I hate that fucking place. Oh look! It’s time for me to go there again. Ta ta for now!
When you flush, please stop and think of me. I’ll be there!
What’s that poop you’re wearing?
Somewhere between love and madness and the toilet … lies Surplus. Love … madness … poop. It’s my secret.
What possesses me? I’ll never know. So there I was, punching the word “poop” into Google and looking for the latest news.
“Watch Jersey Shore’s Season in Poop.” Yeah, yeah. No thanks, I’ll pass.
Eh? Wait one. What’s this??? From the Beauty & Style section, no less. “Man Makes Perfume Out of Poop & Holy S**t, It’s Selling.”
Ewwwww! De toilette???
You silly humans! Even now, at the end, you can still surprise me! LOL! Stop it. No, seriously. Stop it.
The gist of the story is this: An “artist” (I love putting that word in quotes) has produces 85 bottles of something he calls “perfume” that have been crafted from his own private business, if you know what I’m saying.
And it’s only $85 a bottle. And he calls it Surplus.
What’s his secret, besides finding a way to grab at his 15 minutes of notoriety? Does he have the poopy Midas touch? Did he somehow figure out a way to make poop smell good?
Erm, no. The point is supposed to be the opposite. You know how perfume can be used to cover up bad smells with something nice?
The point of Surplus is to cover your good smells with something bad. I shit you not. (Oops. That might be the slogan for Surplus.)
Intrigued? Learn more and see a advertisement here.
Come to find out I’ve been doing it all wrong. Every morning I wake up and go through this damn annoying routine so I don’t smell bad. I take a shower. I rub soap on my body. I wash my hair. I rub deodorant into my armpits. I brush my teeth. Oh sure, I still smell bed, but at least I friggin’ try.
Instead I could just roll out of bed, dab a little Surplus behind each ear, and head out the door to take on the day. I’ve got to admit, that would be a real time saver!
Artist web site: Jammie Nicholas