4 Exotic Types of Poop and 4 Games You Should Try

Types:

Discovery Dookie

It's a new texture you have not felt before.  The smell is nostalgic but vastly different from the mundane poop.  You are surprised your body could make such a creation.  Is it bad?  You will have to wait until this rare occurrence happens again.  But as it stands, you think it may be a sign your poop is evolving.

The Sci-Fi Crap

You are levitating and this faint wave compresses your poo energy into a volatile beam. Have you seen War of the Worlds with Tom Cruise?  Or possibly the buster rifle from Gundam or Kamehameha from DBZ.  Just think of high intensity lasers and imagine your toilet is the death star.

Analytical Shit

You feel the poo sludge through your intestines and you define this as phase 1: "the urge".  You sit on the toilet and calculate the bowel-metric pressure.  Will it explode or drip?  You conclude an accurate prediction by timing how fast your shit moves through the tunnel.

Dennis Poo

The poo that clogs your friend's toilet for days and looks like a Mondo Burger with undigested lettuce skimming the surface.  The culprit will typically ask for a stick or "something" in hopes of breaking it up and pushing it down.  Thank you for giving this poo a name Dennis.

Games:

The TP Challenge

This occurs when you have an awkward amount of toilet paper left.  You try your best to ration the remainder to get maximum effect.  You also hope that your finger doesn't break through the fragile sheets and dips into the fudge. If the bum is clean and you have tissue to spare you will be the hope for our planets future.

Submarine 

It is a game when you place a tiny object of someone else possession (the submarine) at the bottom of the bowl.  You hover over the toilet attempting to drop depth charges.  You typically win on your first try if you eat things such as burritos or bacon cheeseburgers.  If you want more of a challenge –try standing.

Consti-miners

Imagine a team of miners trapped in your rectum behind a huge boulder.  You cannot get them out so they call their miner friends to join in on the struggle to reach the surface.  This mining union builds until everyone is freed and drowned a moment later in a whirlpool.  I suggest watching Patema Inverted to help envision this scenario.

Creme de la brown

This is a lot of work.  I suggest you plan ahead accordingly in order to produce perfect texture.  Do your business in a blender.  Whip it so it is light and airy.  Then proceed to imitate your favorite things.  I mean but really...poo is the original Play-Doh.

Job Hunting

It has been going on like a perpetual hangover.  The last time I drank my liver decided to take a vacation from its job and divided the work amongst the rest of my body.  My stomach swashed around the unprocessed ethyl like an oak barrel.  To say that it felt like my organs were being distilled was an understatement.

But let's step back for a bit and realize the motives of complete negligence to my body.  As I am tossed more into the unknown I have found a person can always have two friends: a cigarette to burn and a beer to wash it down.  They can prove to be great time wasters.  Don't have a T.V.? Why not try a cigarette.  Thirsty? Please. Throw that glass of water over your shoulder and opt for something that will numb your throat on the way down.  Am I a bohemian yet?

Something occurs when you mix your thoughts with substances and plop down in a social circle.  Do the temporary prolific words coming out of your mouth really sink so far in that you go, "Wow, that was too much, excuse me will I head to the toilet to release some of my brilliance".

Let's think about that for a second.

With heavy eyes I am phased with the issue of offering my extremely dedicated soul to work.  Man, I am a human being willing to put forth my energy to better someone else's dream.  Why not take me?  How many other places do I have to slave at before I'm considered a prime cut of meat.  I'm essentially given a car with a gallon of gas and a bank account with a negative balance.  The quickest answer is, obviously, to drive off the nearest bridge.

Alas, I can bitch and moan to my house plants because they actually enjoy the humidity from my hysterical rants being exhaled onto their leaves.  As I like to maintain an ecosystem, I listen to what they have to say by breathing that oh-so-sweet oxygen and tarnish it with my blood.

When will I provide some dignified content to this society?  Well, I think it will happen when it decides to listen. So until then I'll drink smoothies spiked with chia seeds to make myself feel better for going through an extra rinse cycle of booze.

A Night in the City

With an eerie predicament I've arrived in the same situation again.  Beer in hand as I write this, I ponder what it is like in the freezing cold outside.  Granted I'm here, driving home some cover letters like the supernova I want myself to be.  Why not spice up things with whiskey.  The bottle of whiskey that has been festering on-top of my fridge waiting for: "I'm going to enjoy myself while flipping off the world with my centre finger." Ba-ha, as I stir some into my glass.

But I feel this type of stuff is therapeutic.  It puts what you want to do in a perspective that otherwise gets cloudy when you live in such a polluted city.  I am not saying NYC is dirty, but the amount of distractions can fill your mind until it overflows.  You know? That occasional feeling you get at the bar when you want the tap to fill a bottomless chalice so you can consume yourself into a wormhole of feelings and be spit out at a different time.

I come to this realization every now and then.  It is mostly when I look out the window and the view isn't my neighbors garage.  I live in such a potential booming environment, why haven't I succeeded in life yet?  I've made it! I've made it into debt?

It's easy to think things will fall into place when you change your environment.  Sometimes you get lucky, but you really got to kick your own ass to move anywhere.  So here I am, coaxing my fingers to do what I do: to write some unwitting nonsense about my perspective of growing up at this very moment.  I'm sure that all the potential of this advice will be naught once I wake up tomorrow. "Ya   Dumb-ass", but said in the way from Red from That 70's Show.

Ehh

You know, I was working coat check at this music joint not too long ago, it was a private corporate party.  It was as close as being at an office without actually working at said office.  Needless to say, I was entertained by the cast of characters participating.  Some young, around my age, others were more established in their years.  One woman had a particular fascinating background:

She asked me what I was reading.

"Murakami, Dance Dance Dance"

She pulled out a book looking for her coat ticket, and I asked her about it, naturally.

"Oh, this is just a book from my dead husband, it's probably not as good as yours"

Say what? She went into detail and asked me what I do.  I say I write but haven't written for a long time.  She told me, write, blog, that's how you will get somewhere.  "Remember the woman with the dead husband who told you to write",  Then she left bidding me good luck.


Right. Well this is for you random-lady-with-dead-husband-I-met-at-coatcheck.  As I sip my beer listening to New Order; I feel like I'm writing this post with a synthesizer.