I was just in the bathroom at work and someone was having some seriously wicked bad twosies.
I know. I KNOW. I haven't blogged here in FOREVER and now I'm back talking about smelly poops? I'M SORRY. But. Would you really expect anything else?
I have nothing against people who poo at work. It happens sometimes. No one likes it but there's no controlling it, unless you're like my friend's brother who, when he was younger, used to hold it so long that he wouldn't be able to uncross his legs for fear of letting it all out. The poop. Letting the poop out. He called it "getting stuck" and my friend, his older sister, would try and push him over and "unstick" him, if you will, to try and make him poop his pants, which is totally an older sibling thing to do if you really think about it. I never did anything like that to my little sister. I did, however, tell her that we found her in a basket on the front porch when she was a baby. And that the basement was haunted. And whenever I babysat her and she was being bad, I'd pretend to call my parents and really call Time & Temperature instead. I'd tell the automated voice all of the bad things she was doing until she started crying and promised to be good.
That would last about five minutes.
Anyway, back to the poop stories. The funniest poop story I have ever heard isn't even my poop story. My friend...um, I'll call her Carrie because I don't know anyone named Carrie, except for Carrie Bradshaw but sometimes I wish I didn't know her, like when she's wearing something particularly crazy or she's letting the puns fly fast and furious.
When Carrie (not Bradshaw) was three, her parents took her to the mall. And when Carrie was three, E.T. was very, very popular, but she, like many children, was absolutely terrified of that poor, little alien.
There she is, little Carrie in her purple overalls (creative license) and bright red, bepigtailed hair, wandering the mall with her parents, not a care in the world.
Until she saw him. E.T. Staring straight at her. Like this. Obviously, she was startled. I mean, this (fake) E.T. was as tall as she was and probably seemed more than a little menacing.
So she did what any terrified three-year-old would do in the face of such danger: she screamed bloody murder and then immediately pooped her pants.
Hmm. That's not really that funny, I guess, if you don't know Carrie. I'm sorry you don't know her, she's awesome. Anyway.
I have no point, really, and no real reason for telling poop stories today, other than I had the stomach flu earlier this week so, you know, I've spent a lot of time recently contemplating The Number Two. YOU'RE WELCOME.