I highly recommend my brother Sean’s blog on pooping, and also my brother Kent’s blog on pooping as well. I know my other brother Steve will probably leave well enough alone, but my sister Michelle already talked about her rectum last year, so I figure it’s my turn to wax coprophilic.
To whit: I don’t like pooping. Never had, never will. I find this interesting because God himself attached an incredible amount of pleasure to the act of removing any substance from one’s body: sneezing is a hoot, burping/farting is sweet relief, barfing is a godsend when you need it, hocking a good loogie is something to be celebrated, and I don’t need to tell any of you, fair male readers, how nice it is to get rid of some sperm.
I’m short on good pooping stories, but I will tell you this: for Halloween 1991, my housemates Matt M., Clay B., (future Archer of Loaf) Matt Gentling and I dressed up as babies, complete with Depends™ adult diapers and T-shirts that said “Li’l Stinker.” We filled our baby bottles full of Southern Comfort and hit the night running.
Around 1am or so, I was stuck at a party talking to this dreadfully boring chick, and DESPERATELY had to pee. The line for the bathroom was interminable, this girl was never going to let me go… then I realized: hey, I’m wearing diapers.
Here’s the curious thing about peeing in your pants: you really have to convince your bladder you’re serious. Decades of shame-induced bladder-control muscles don’t just suddenly LET you pee while talking to someone who has no idea what you’re up to.
So I did it. It was long, delirious and satisfying. And you know what? At the end of the night, I took the diapers off and inspected them, and THERE WAS NO TRACE OF PEE ANYWHERE! The diaper had absorbed it, then transferred it to outer space. In many ways, I found this comforting, as if incontinence in my later years won’t be so bad. As long as they can fit under hoop shorts, growing old is going to be a blast!