For centuries, humankind has pondered the towering question of anterior/posterior direction dogs point whilst pooping upon the land. Finally, after 24 months and 1,893 dog poops, twelve researchers have resoundingly answered this daunting mystery, and the much admired PBS powers that be have noted it on Newshour.
According to the study, dogs poop in a north-south pointing axis. Oh how great it is to know, though one commenter was quick to point out that her dog always poops in an east-west orientation. Read all about doggy doodle direction.
An in-depth examination (or brief perusal, really) of the study reveals a photo of a dog squatted down in pooping mode, ostensibly because people reading the study have not seen dogs poop. An “Ethics Statement” near the end notes that, “The study did not involve any disturbance of the animals under observation,” but one wonders if the dog in the photo might have been a bit concerned about the photographer standing behind it taking the [cheap] shot.
A friend was kind enough to teach me a poop emoticon keyboard shortcut which will give you an instant pile o’ poop – with eyeballs – right on your screen. Instantly, the thought of poop staring back up struck fear right into my imagination. Upside down and inverted, poop emoticons loosely resemble skulls (or aliens). Ironic, no? Just type :poop: + Enter during your next chat session (confirmed to work on Facebook), and you too can enjoy instantly sharing poop with your friends.
Look into my eyes.
One could not help but notice Google graphic faux pas, Google Poopi, today. The negative spaces in today’s unique rendition of the Google logo pretty clearly spells “Poopli” or “PoopI:”. And those spaces are colored just like poop to boot. With the colon there (no pun intended), it appears to indicate the “Google Poopi” is whatever you enter in the search bar.
I love those special Google logos. Don’t you?
See the Google Poopi brown type in the negative spaces?
P.S. Happy Birthday Google.
So, I’m in the locker room, and I hear some dude a couple rows over whining to his bud that he hasn’t been able to dump for over five days. He’s so worried about it, he can’t stop himself from talking about it. His buddy is starkly silent, uncomfortable? yea. Says he’s stopped eating, except when he can’t stand it anymore. Says he’s petrified of doing anything now because he has no energy. I look down the isle, and yea, he’s rail skinny and white as a ghost. He makes it worse by wearing white everything. He could be Casper.
I’m like, “Dude, I don’t mean to but in, but you were kinda loud, and well, you know, you need to eat more, that’s all. Just eat like a pig and drink a ton of water and coffee or tea, and it’ll happen for ya. Think of yourself as a can, man. Just pack it in the mouth end, and eventually the other end pretty much has to open up. It’s not like it’s going to come back up and out your mouth.”
He looked at me like a scared animal, eyes gelling over with something like hate or wariness. I don’t know. How does someone become scared of pooing? Oh wait, I don’t want to know.
“A can?” he asks.
“Or whatever, I don’t know. A poop time-bomb, if ya like,” I say.
I can see his eyebrows crumple from two rows down, perplexed. The corners of his mouth turn down. I’m not making light, just trying to offer practical perspective. He seems kinda pissed, yet also seems to know I’m right. Sheepishly, a “thanks, man.” I’m soooo outta there with, “Yeah, good luck,” sorta sorry I piped up. Locker rooms suck.
Note of fair warning: The video below starts out funny, progresses to being on the gross side, and finishes up hilariously.
Reader “Sleepy” writes:
Sometimes I wake in the middle of the night to find myself in dire need of a toilet trip. I leap up and stumble my way to the bathroom praying I’ll make it – I ran into a wall one night and a door another, but I always do get there one way or another so I can experience an unnatural birth of a vile substance custom made for a good flushing. Why doesn’t this happen at a normal time of day? By the way, what’s up with short toilets? Are they just for kids?
Um. Oh my. Our non-expert team of non-physician, non-experts have no idea, but maybe you have a super high metabolism and it’s always rarin’ to go go go. Maybe try more fiber during the morning? As for short toilets: Yeah, for kids I think. And toilet-trained cats.
Now for some real entertainment, check this vid. You gotta watch this to the end for true comic payoff (it’s short).
In my inbox, I just spied a T-shirt featuring a swell illustration of dog sniffing cat butt, titled, ‘I Like You.’ And if it’s not enough for you to see this phenomenon occur in real life, you can purchase a print of it for 18 buckaroos or garnish your idevice too.
Is it possible that I have Teflon in my poop? Lately when I go, there’s nothing to wipe. Nothing at all. Is this even possible?
Concerned but oddly happy.
Dear Teflon Poo,
I’m no doctor, so take this with a grain of salt, but sure, why not? By the way, what are you on?
Teflon is a strange substance. According to the Environment Working Group, heated Teflon pans can begin to release toxic particles at 464 degrees F, and toxic gases at 680 degrees F. If, by some odd chance, you are bending over forward (near the pan) and buck naked whilst cooking, say, an omelet without the overhead fan on, I suppose it’s within the realm of possibility that you could get Teflon particles on your bunghole. I doubt, however, that it would find its way up your poop chute and into your poop unless you were somehow “helping” it.
As for there being nothing to wipe, try:
1. turning the lights on so you can see.
2. being happily amazed at your toilet paper and tree savings, as well as the reduction of your carbon footprint.
3. considering the possibility that you may actually be dead, thus all of your bodily fluids have already exited your corpse.
4. considering yourself rectally enlightened.
The scene was my dark, dank basement, morning time. Setting up shelving, squatted down over a box of useless computer crap. Rats once patrolled here, two of them, leaving rat drops everywhere. I cleaned and cleaned, but you can’t clean everything. So I’m squatted over this box figuring out how best to throw all of it out when a feeling grips me with the urgency of a bad Sarah Palin comment, rings me to the core, forces a leg-clenching I’ve not before experienced. I wonder as I am running up the damned dusty stairs in this awkward-asscheek-clenching manner: WTF caused this? ‘The green tea, coffee and chocolate’ my racing mind answers, swearing never again. Last time I saw anyone bolt to the bothroom like this was a crooked plumber, involved in a strange twist of fate, who deserved such badness. So I made it to the bathroom, but gripped by a fear of residual ratness on my hands being anywhere near my rectal orifice, I commenced washing them, thinking I should find my reading glasses so I could read on the can because I hate wasting time, but ever aware of the primordial tail parting my reluctant ass cheeks, and praying it did not touch the morning’s fresh long underwear. Forget the book. Barely dried my hands in time to slam my pants down to the floor and release the basterd into its rightful resting pool of waiting water, thankful for the killer timing of everything.
[Editor's note: This would not have made the cut were it not for the close proximity of rat droppings, Sarah Palin, and poo.]
Ok, so this isn’t exactly a poop story but hope you’ll accept it anyway. [it's all poop to us. - Ed.]
Have you ever been to France? I took four years of French language in high school, thinking it would help if I traveled there. Wrong. The French people made fun of my attempts to speak, laughed right in front of me and refused to reply. Now I suppose it’s my turn (thought I loved it there overall).
The toilets in France are like thrones. At hotel after hotel I ran into some of the most bizarre contraptions they called toilets. They had ‘em all built up on pedestal upon pedestal, often with nothing more than a shower curtain around the throne. One of them looked like a medieval torture device with a black rubber bladder inside. I flushed it to see if would flush the whole room, but instead it overflowed for several minutes, leaving a pool of water all across the floor. When I asked the sup if their was another one, they just laughed and laughed.
In Japan International airport, they seem to want to humble foreigners with the toilets. Most of the country has modern toilets, but the airport has a stall with a hole in the floor. Not very welcoming.
I’m curious to know what people have encountered in other countries?
The following is a post from May 3, 2001. It was on a message board I used to frequent. Not being anyone’s mother, I saved it to remind me why I wasn’t anyone’s mother.
First, I have to tell you I am miserable with my DH in NJ. We are transferring up there in June, but he has had to begin his assignment there now. He will be home for a month of paternity leave on May 26th. If I ever complain about how little he does, someone needs to slap me. I can’t believe how much he was doing. I am exhausted without him here.
So today, I have to be at a room mother meeting at school at 8AM. Brighid gets dropped off at 7:30, and the cafeteria, where the meeting is being held, isn’t open until 7:50. I took a bottle with me, figuring I would drop Brighid off, then park and feed Eilis. That way, I theorized, she would sleep through the meeting.
Now, Eilis has gone from pooping 4 or 5 times a day to pooping every couple of days. It’s a manageable amount every two or three days, but definitely more than she was going when she had 5 BM’s a day. So today, of course, while I’m in the parking lot, she decides it’s her day to go. I wait patiently for her to finish, then debate whether or not to change her or wait until the meeting is over. I decide to change her — there were going to be some moms there who hadn’t met her yet, and I didn’t want everyone oohing and aahing over how stinky she was.
So, I lay out the diaper, the wipes, the plastic bag to put the dirty diaper in, etc. I situate Eilis on the front seat of the car, and I start to change her. She does have a pretty muddy diaper, so I am glad that I made the decision not to let her sit in the mud for an hour long meeting. I get her all cleaned up, place the nice fresh diaper under her, and then it happened.
Like the fountain at EPCOT center, poop comes flying from her butt, shooting in all directions, spraying passers by, changing colors and playing classical music. Okay, there was no music. I was covered in poop from my chin to my knees. The whole front seat of my car (which, by the way, my husband just cleaned before he left for NJ) was covered in poop. Eilis is laying there happy as a pig in – well, let’s just say she was happy. I went through two new packs of portable wipes, I used the blanket I had with me, and I soaked up two cloth diapers. Eilis had poop in between her toes, in between her little chubby knees – it was a disaster.
Needless to say, I didn’t go into my meeting. I raced home, stripped naked, pre-spotted all of my clothes, stripped Eilis, threw her in the tub (still smiling and cooing), showered myself, and did a load of wash. Apparently, poop doesn’t come out of white shorts – my shorts are back in with more pre-spot. Now I have to find a nice way to explain to the other room moms from my grade who were counting on me to get the info why I wasn’t there.
Oh, the joys of motherhood.