Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Citing boredom, the man who challenged the entire bowel movement as an entity for the past 13 days decided to call it quits, relieving himself quietly in the backseat of his parents’ sedan. Bub issued a statement as brief as the one that started it all.
“I feel better,” he said.
His meteoric rise to excremental infamy began nearly two weeks ago with the succinctly intriguing statement now emblazoned on the t-shirts of so many of his followers: No more poop!
What began as one man’s personal exercise in asceticism inspired a cultish following that flash-mobbed chat rooms with lyrical gems such as ‘Viva la poop!’ and ‘Brown is the new chartreuse.’
For many, the expression took on much deeper social and personal meanings, and Bub became a minor countercultural sensation. Insisting from the beginning that this was never a publicity stunt, he never seemed quite comfortable in the spotlight.
His career apexed on The Late Show, when he joked, “What’s shorter than a leprechaun, has no teeth and is completely full of s*&%?”
Nearly in unison, the audience roared, “Buuuuuuuuuuubbbb!!!!”
“No. David Letterman.”
Reactions were mixed, but Paul Shaffer was clearly caught on camera saying, “Oh, SNAP!”
Thus ended Bub’s brief foray into television. The tireless questions about his motivations and fame-grabbing in the following week eventually took their toll, and Bub became increasingly sullen and withdrawn. A survey on Whathotwhatsnot.com rated Bub’s hotness above Lisa Bonet, but several notches below Andy Dick.
In his last pre-poop interview with a college newspaper, the reporter noted that Bub had “let himself go” physically, arriving with matted hair, a mangy beard and the aroma of day-old milk. His answers were disinterested, ambiguous at best.
When asked if he wanted to set the record straight once and for all, he answered simply, “Mehhhhh.”
His parents said they were looking forward to getting back to normal as well.
“It’s been quite the rollercoaster ride,” Dad said. “I don’t know his motivations, either, but I can report that we did save a lot on diapers this month.”
Asked to describe the moment it all ended, Dad added this:
“Oh yeah, it was titanic. Imagine a Miller High Life bender capped off with late-night Taco Bell missteps. Now double that. Add a side of poop. And that’s pretty much what we were looking at.”
And what was next for Bub?
“I dunno,” shrugged Dad. “I usually need a nap after a movement like that.”
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Long-known as a rebel without a crawl, the iconoclastic rabble-rouser known as Bub issued a chilling decree last week: No more poop!
Though his intentions or inspirations weren’t immediately clear, this was a stark declaration of austerity for the man known in certain circles as Senor Poopy Pants and whose Twitter handle is @ShitsMcGee.
The story went viral and pundits immediately tweeted over one another about the veracity of the claim, speculated about potential demands, and laid down bets on number days he could last.
“Think b4 u speak, Bub. Like R.E.M. said, “Everybody poops,” one said.
“I give him til 4th o July BBQ. He can’t resist Bush’s Grillin Beans LOL,” another said.
One tweeted simply: “WTF Bub?”
Critics were quick to point out the physical impossibilities of his claim, but at nine days in now, he has silenced the majority of naysayers. Throughout the ordeal, Bub has repeatedly taken the gastrointestinal high road, saying only, “This isn’t about poop. Shakespeare asked ‘To poop or not to poop?’ Well, I can’t read.”
When asked directly about his reasons behind the poop-in, Bub maintained that he is not politically motivated.
“This has nothing whatsoever to do with the current poop overage in Sweden,” Bub stated. “Though I wish them all the best in their excremental endeavors.”
Asked if he was revolting against his hapless parents, Bub looked shocked. “How? I’m doing them a favor.”
Asked where he got the idea for such a stunt, Bub said simply, “Jackass 3-D.”
According to Guinness, the longest recorded time of non-pooping was previously held by Tre in the movie Menace II Society. Released from jail and vomiting gratuitously, he uttered the immortal quote, “Man, I ain’t shit in a week!”
But Bub claims that breaking records had nothing to do with it, either.
“This is not a competition,” he stated. “This is about a boy and his dream. And that’s all it ever was.”
To sleep perchance to dream, young man. And to dream perchance not to poop.
Monday, June 20, 2011
I’ve gotten into the habit of talking to myself. Let me clarify: I’ve always talked to myself. I’ve gotten in the habit of conversing with myself. Let me further clarify: I’ve gotten in the habit of practicing conversations with people who aren’t currently in the general vicinity.
Now don’t get all weirded out. Yet. I don’t actually hold the conversation, i.e. I don’t get into role play and throw my voice, utilize hand puppets, or cock my head from side to side. Nor do I presume to answer for my cohorts. That would be bizarre. No, I simply carry the conversation from my end, ask questions that never get answered and answer questions that are never asked. What’s weird about that?
They are always very potentially realistic conversations that could happen in the very near future, but you can see where the lines start to become blurred. I can’t remember if I actually called, or if I just practiced calling. One time I got super pissed, sitting at the bowling alley, done warming up, ball selected, first pitcher empty. I sent my brother a small barrage of hate-texts, only to finally have him respond that he was working late, and what the hell was I was talking about. We had no plans, and why the fuck would he want to go bowling anyway? A real crusher.
I wonder if subconsciously I’m trying to trigger déjà vu in myself. So that if and when I actually do have the conversations, I’ll be like, ‘No no no, keep talking. This is so weird. I feel like we’ve had this very conversation before!’ Maybe I need a hobby.
This has come to my immediate attention twice in the last week or so, and I’m realizing that it may be a problem. Not for me, so much, but those around me.
Exhibit A: I’ve taken up squash as a healthy outlet to all this daddy-ing stuff. But here’s an unhealthy outlet: talking to a friend who isn’t at least in the standard mode of thinking, “there.” So we get to the facility. I’m not a member, so we have to pay every time. I give the woman my credit card, she goes to run it, very standard stuff, very mundane. So far, so good. Then I see her looking at me like I had just asked her a question. And it occurred to me I had asked a question. Just not to her. I mean, why are people so damn self-centered? I was talking to my brother, lady. ABC-yourself out.
But that wasn’t the worst one. Last week I drove home from somewhere. Perhaps it was the rec center. It was nighttime, dark. We live on a quiet street. I was thinking about calling my buddy to see if he wanted to grab a beer maybe Wednesday of that week. I open my car door and step out, just as I strike up the conversation.
“Hey, what’s up, man?” I say.
A young woman just happened to be walking by at that exact moment, camouflaged with ninja stealth in the surrounding darkness. She was on her phone. You know, having a “real” conversation. She looked at me, obviously trying to figure out if I was in fact talking to her, the only other person within a half-block radius. I was not. Like I said, I was talking to my buddy.
She looked me up and down, confused because of my use of the word ‘man,’ one of which she was clearly not. But you know, it’s hands-free 2011, no worries, no reason to start quickening the old pace or grasping for the pepper spray just yet. She looked again and I looked away, like I was actually talking to someone else (and I was, my buddy), and she no doubt noticed that I had no Bluetooth protruding from either earhole. I’d say her reaction was equal parts disgust and pity.
But at that point, I was in too deep. I did the only thing I could.
“Yeah, I’m good. What are you up to tomorrow night? Yeah? You wanna grab a beer?”
Pace subsequently quickened. Questions again raised, and left unanswered. Maybe I should just remain in the familiar confines of Baby Jail. And while this is all quite obviously Bub's fault, he's also the only one I can really hold a conversation with these days. Oh, sweet sweet irony.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Dear Admiral Obvious:
I am writing in response to the study you recently conducted that resulted in today’s headline:
Tired Women More Likely to Fight with Husbands.
This bombshell your study dropped was represented in my local paper by a whoppingly succinct two sentences. Sometimes less is more. And sometimes less is asinine.
The first sentence was more or less the headline itself, clarifying only that when women have a “poor night’s sleep,” the gloves just come right off. First off, how do you define “poor night’s sleep?” Is that a technical term? Like I’d give my sleep last night about a C-. Is that considered poor or just below average?
And how exactly was this highly scientific study conducted? Group A beds down on cots in the NIC unit at the hospital. Group B (Control) sprawls on Valium-infused silk. Eight hours later, the respective husbands enter with the revelation that they sold your favorite Louboutin pumps on eBay to cover their baccarat losses. Document ensuing fireworks. And there’s your “study.” Am I close?
Okay, I’m sort of with you, to a point. Though I would deposit this directly in the “No Shit, Sherlock” file, yes, my wife is oft-ill-tempered after a rough night’s sleep. But who isn’t? And here’s where your study really goes astray.
The second riveting sentence of your barnburner claims that when men experience such a dearth of sleep, “it doesn’t appear to have any effect on the marriage.” Ex-squeeze me? Baking powder? If I don’t get enough sleep, I’m likely to fight with my wife, kid, random strangers, hapless motorists, other people’s kids, smirky barristas and idiotic scientists without discrimination. In fact, you wanna step outside, Pitt? Oh, I’m sorry, I must not have slept well last night. Or, according to your study, I guess I slept too well?
Stupid. Doesn’t make sense. How’s your tuition increase looking this year?
Anyway, I’ve come up with some new theories for you to test, less offensive. Crowd-pleasers, every bit as riveting as your study:
1. Concrete is, in fact, hard.
2. The dominating characteristic of water is wetness.
3. The earth is, it turns out, spherical.
Editor's Note: Okay, so I'm a little sensitive to sleep topics these days. BTW, it's still me. I am the editor. There's a disturbing thought for you.