Another Fine Mess, aka Another "Tail" of Doo Doo

My childhood pets, Trixie the dog and Frisky the cat

So, today, I have another bit of scatalogical humor for you. How do you like that? Scatalogical humor. I confess that this is a new phrase for me. A college friend with whom I'm in contact through Facebook introduced it to me. I'd always heard "potty humor" or "bathroom humor" but scatalogical humor sounds much more dignified, doesn't it? It's also more inclusive, as the story I'm about to tell doesn't involve either a potty or a bathroom. It's not that I'm fixated on doo doo (I hope) but my recent blog about getting doo doo bombed by a seagull at Seaside Heights got me thinking about other, uh, interesting incidents in my life.

My good friend Adrienne is a fan of, er, scatalogical humor, and she is always surprised when I can appreciate it. She thinks I am too delicate a person for this sort of thing. I suppose I am selective. A contrived story is not nearly as funny as a true one. And then there is this. I came across a photo on the Internet where a woman was caught on camera, on an escalator, in a short white skirt, with liquid diarrhea dripping down her skirt and legs. Did you laugh at that? I hope not. If such a public disaster -- God forbid! -- should befall me, I hope someone doesn't photograph my humiliation and publish it to the Internet without my knowledge.

On the other hand, I laughed myself silly as I read about one man's nightmarish situation with a diarrhea emergency and a very unique bathroom situation on a private plane. I can laugh because the poor man clearly sees the humor in it himself. It's worth a read, if you can overlook a few fbombs that he drops. Then, no matter what embarrassing situation happens to you, you can (most likely) say to yourself, 'Well, at least, I didn't go through what that poor guy on the plane did."

The story you are about to read is true. The names have not been changed to protect the innocent, which is basically ... me.

During my college days, when I was home one summer, my brother Tim and I were given the task of carrying a ladder out to the backyard. (I should explain that my brother Tim would be a Tim Clark but that this Tim Clark is an entirely different person than the Tim Clark who owns and writes this blog.) I no longer remember the reason why a ladder was needed in the backyard. I only remember that something interesting happened in the process. I was on the far end of the ladder backing up with it, while my brother walked forwards with the other end, and I was barefoot, because I'm always barefoot whenever possible. Did I mention I had a dog? If you gather nothing else from this story, take note of this, that if you have a dog, walking backwards through your backyard barefoot is probably not a good idea.

Yes, you guessed it. I stepped in dog poo. Not only did I step in dog poo, I stepped in fresh, warm, moist dog poo that squished up really well between all the toesies. I suppose the wisest thing for me to do at that point would be for me to take the garden hose and hose off my foot. I didn't think of this however, because the backyard didn't seem like my realm. My older and wiser brother -- twelve years older to be exact -- could have pointed out this simple solution, only he was too busy laughing, doubled over, laughing really hard.

So, instead, I act like some slightly demented flamingo, hopping on one foot from the yard to the back door. Brother Tim never leaves my side, although not so much in support. He is still laughing. I think he is forgetting to breathe. Does he offer me advice? Tips? No. He just stays with me as my hysterical sidekick, my straight man who can't be serious. He's Harvey Korman.

I continue hopping through the house. I wish I could show you a "Family Circus" style map to show you just how far my trek through the house was to get to my final destination. I hopped through the family room, the dining room, the living room, up about five steps, a demented flamingo with fresh poo on her foot, down the hallway and into the bathroom. I then hopped into the tub where I could rinse off my foot.

And thus ends my "tail" of poo, which is very different from a tale of Pooh, although I hope you enjoy both.

  In case I made my brother Tim out to seem cruel, I just want to say that he is the best brother in the world. The Tim who owns this blog is pretty cool too and, perhaps, he is my distant relative.