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Blossoms from the Fart Garden
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This is my place for Uninsightful Adolescent Ramblings. If anyone actually finds it, reads it, and heaven forbid, makes a comment on it, I'll be very surprised.
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| Scientists have discovered... |
Apr 29, 2008 11:33 pm
Mood: Goofy, 641 Views | Scientists have discovered...
click to enlarge
that most women in their life will, at some time in their life contain intelligent DNA.
Unfortunately over 95% of them will spit it out. | |
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12 Comments | |
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| The Executive Washroom |
Apr 28, 2008 7:30 pm
Mood: Shitty, 626 Views | It was the day of my orientation at the company where I had just been hired. It was the policy of this company for every new employee to meet the CEO. You get the picture: some greenhorn kid with a few remaining pimples on his nose sits with an accomplished and powerful fifty-eight-year-old.
Nervous as a titmouse, I slunk into the facility that morning already soused with about five cups of coffee slathering around in my belly. I'm a nervous cat. I really didn't want to meet the CEO. I just wanted to do my crappy management trainee job from nine to five and leave without any fanfare.
Upon arrival, I downed a bran muffin that tasted like a bat turd and another half-pot of coffee. I knew it was a mistake but I'm obsessive/compulsive, and if there's coffee or goodies set in front of me, I drink and eat them.
The CEO finally came out of his hidey-hole looking quite ill to my untrained eye, with an unhealthy red flush in his cheeks. "I'm sick," he said after introducing himself. "A touch of the stomach flu. But we'll spend a half-hour together anyways, if you don't mind." After shaking hands, I tried to wipe the sticky gumbo he'd left on my right hand onto my polyester trousers. I detected a whiff of monkey death. Did I mind? Yes. This guy smelled like a melted jar of Mexican prison-issue Cheez Whiz. Sweaty, greasy sweat globules poured down his brow; his breath reminded me of the festering asshole of a chinchilla.
"I need to use the restroom," I heard myself say. I needed to get away from this guy before I vomited up chunks of intestine.
"You can use the executive room," he said. And then he dropped the deuce:
"I need to go, myself."
This worried me, since I was about to download a serious tube of Brylcreem.
The restroom was pristine and had mirrors everywhere. Barry Manilow had been imported from some desperate elevator music company. I clunked my hairless kipper onto the seat and plastered the bowl with a liberal amount of cookie dough. It spattered all over the bowl and up onto my ass, too.
After wiping with a space-age paper that smelled of dandelions, I got up and looked for the handle, knowing this was three flushes, minimum.
No handle.
Wouldn't you know, this toilet had one of the sensors that detected the consistency of the poop before flushing it down.
I started to panic. I stepped out of the stall. I stepped in. I flashed my hand in front of the sensor. I pounded on the sensor. I wiped the sensor. I spit on the sensor. The flaming pile of goat whip started to burn my nose hairs.
And then I heard the CEO knocking on the door. "You okay in there?" he called.
A phlegmball coated my throat. In a voice that sounded like Ernest Borgnine after drinking a barium enema, I said, "Give me a second."
I begged the sensor to flush down the pile. Nothing happened.
I started to plan. Maybe I could scoop it into a bucket and carry it out of there? But no, I could hear him in the back of my mind, saying, "Why are you carrying a pail of poop out of my bathroom?"
I gave up, washed my hands, and opened the door. The whiff hit his nostrils and he looked at me as if I had just announced on Dr. Phil that I was marrying Tom Cruise's brother Larry.
I only lasted four months on that job. Every time I saw the CEO, he gave me a nasty look. | |
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| Two Masterpieces in One Day |
Apr 24, 2008 11:51 pm
Mood: Shitty, 780 Views | The year was 1991, Easter, and I was separated from my first wife, and living alone. I played in a 'Rock'N'Roll" band at the time, and one of my bandmates asked me to join his family for Easter. So I took up my bandmate's offer to spend the weekend with his family.
I am not one who has *that* many pooping episodes, it just seems like it because I blog about them. I live the boring existence of my once-per-day morning sit-down. But around this time, for some reason, I had been on a record hot streak. I had been delivering sizeable dumps that I had only dreamed about, dumps that I had only read about in books.
I drove to my bandmate's house and met his parents, who are still the nicest two people I have ever met in my life. The house itself was pretty standard 1950's construction, including the one bathroom on the second floor with no fan and a window that had been caulked shut years before. The toilet itself was one of those pre low-flow toilets that looked real nice but did little else beyond only gently swirling the water around.
On Easter morning, we went and picked up my bandmate's grandmother. She was about ninety and pretty much deaf, blind, and in a rather feeble state. We got back to his house and had a wonderful meal -- I immediately starting to get contractions. Usually I would get those nice, easy warm-up contractions that give me plenty of time to get where I need to go; but not in this case. I went from feeling nothing all the way to full-fledged pull-your-bottom-lip-over-the-top-of-your-head type-cramps. I excused myself. And by the time I reached the top of the stairs, I was touching cloth.
click to enlarge
I reached the bathroom and unleashed the chocolate hostage that was screaming in my bowels. Everything went about as well as it could -- and to my amazement, there was no odor.
I stood up and viewed my three-pound Easter Yule log with great pride. I felt a great sense of relief as I flushed the toilet. But the flush didn't sound quite right, which made me wonder about a possible clog, so I went back.
Everything looked normal. The turd was gone. And with no odor, it was like I was never there! A perfect result when you are soiling a friend's house.
About fifteen minutes later, my bandmate went upstairs. The next thing I heard was his shout: "Oh my God! Get up here, quick!" Everyone except grandma went upstairs to see what the problem was.
My bandmate was on the toilet with his pants around his ankles. He had started to go and had chosen to employ the courtesy flush technique -- something with which I was unfamiliar at the time -- and when he had flushed, both his newly minted turd and my chocolate hostage, which apparently had caused the toilet blockage, had spilled out of the toilet and into his pants, which were more or less acting like a strainer. There was poo everywhere and the most horrendous stench I had ever smelled.
I never let on that I had left the clogger. Instead, I said to my bandmate, "Dude what's wrong with you? You need to go to the hospital or something?"
My last sight in that bathroom was of my bandmate's mother on her hands and knees, cleaning the bathroom in her "Leave it to Beaver" skirt.
I was the first one downstairs, which meant I was the first to find the blind grandmother, who we had all left at the table, wandering around the first floor, bumping into furniture. I brought her back to the table. "What the Christ smells so bad?" she demanded. I told her I wasn't sure, but that I thought her grandson needed to go see a doctor.
Later that day, we decided to go to a local park to play basketball. As we started to play, I quickly became aware that I was going to have a repeat performance from earlier that day. I had a sense of horror when I pulled on the bathroom door, and it was LOCKED.
from my first wife, and living alone. I played in a 'Rock'N'Roll" band at the time, and one of my bandmates asked me to join his family for Easter. So I took up my bandmate's offer to spend the weekend with his family.
I am not one who has *that* many pooping episodes, it just seems like it because I blog about them. I live the boring existence of my once-per-day morning sit-down. But around this time, for some reason, I had been on a record hot streak. I had been delivering sizeable dumps that I had only dreamed about, dumps that I had only read about in books.
I drove to my bandmate's house and met his parents, who are still the nicest two people I have ever met in my life. The house itself was pretty standard 1950's construction, including the one bathroom on the second floor with no fan and a window that had been caulked shut years before. The toilet itself was one of those pre low-flow toilets that looked real nice but did little else beyond only gently swirling the water around.
On Easter morning, we went and picked up my bandmate's grandmother. She was about ninety and pretty much deaf, blind, and in a rather feeble state. We got back to his house and had a wonderful meal -- I immediately starting to get contractions. Usually I would get those nice, easy warm-up contractions that give me plenty of time to get where I need to go; but not in this case. I went from feeling nothing all the way to full-fledged pull-your-bottom-lip-over-the-top-of-your-head type-cramps. I excused myself. And by the time I reached the top of the stairs, I was touching cloth.
click to enlarge
I squatted down behind a shrub and my Easter meal left the departure lounge. I cleaned up with some leaves and a sick...and left.
I often wonder what horror some poor grounds maintenance person met that Monday after Easter. I rejoined my bandmate playing basketball. Two masterpieces in one day, and I didn't get busted for either. | |
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8 Comments | |
| My Grandma... |
Apr 23, 2008 2:34 am
885 Views | My Grandma used to be one of my best friends. She was my grandma on my dad's side, and I loved her dearly, totally, and unconditionally.
Once every couple of weeks, I'd visit her at the nice "assisted living" place in which she'd taken residence.
Why am I telling you this? Because I wanted you to know the origin of the weirdest conversation we've ever had.
This last visit started like any other... Deadbeat relatives, crazy relatives, what the kids are up to, and how much fun she was having with her new boyfriend, a WWII veteran who was at Iwo Jima.
The topics were meandering and I was finishing up some soup on the stove when she began to discuss the toilet in her old house, which she'd just sold at an ass-reaming price. "It seems that the people who bought my house have to do major renovations in the bathroom because they just found the floor is almost completely rotten."
"No way," I remarked. "I always thought it was in great shape, even up until the last time I visited you."
She corrected me. "Me too, but I guess the floor was about ready to give way when it sold. They're going to have to redo everything."
That this happened seemed almost fair. The people who purchased her home held her over hot coals because they knew she needed to sell quickly. Ha, I thought. Karma. "Well, better that they didn't find out before the sale was final, huh?"
"Yes," she agreed. And then dropped the bomb. "And I know exactly what caused it, too. It was that one time you clogged the toilet. It overflowed all over the floor and leaked all the way down to the pool table in the basement."
Come again?
"Don't you remember? It was the only time that I lived there that there was a bathroom incident."
I thought about it. And sure enough, the incident broke the surface of my memory. What came to mind first was the water-damaged ceiling tile above the near left corner of the pool table. Then, slowly, I began to have more memories: I'd forgotten almost all of this until Grandma brought up the damaged bathroom.
"What happened on that day?"
"Well," she started, "you told me you had clogged the toilet. And boy did you! It was huge." I didn't need clarification as to what was huge.
"We mopped up as much of the water as we could, but apparently we didn't get it all. It must have sat there all these years, slowly rotting the wood between the floors."
We talked about diapers, toilets, Karma, and how weird it is that these memories were downright absent from the past twenty-five years of my life.
"I wonder what else there is to remember," I told her. "Maybe I'll get lucky and remember someone crapping their pants at one of the family reunions." (As it is, the only juicy memory I have from a reunion was my father backing our orange 1973 Chrysler into a tree and then yelling at the rest of us because somehow it was our fault -- it certainly wasn't the six pack of Blatz he'd laid waste to after the annual softball game.)
After I left, I thought about what an unusual conversation we'd had and why the topic of poop had surfaced at all.
I know my grandma is gone, and that's hard to think about. I'm 52 years old and this woman had been a force in my life since day one. To consider life without her, to realize I'll never hug her again? Bleak.
My life has gone on without her, though. | |
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| An Asshole to Dye For: An Experiment In Anal Bleaching |
Apr 21, 2008 11:49 pm
Mood: Experimental, 1214 Views | An eerie silence settles over the pharmacy as I sidle up to the poor woman stocking the skin care aisle. With fire in my eyes and drink on my breath, I make a vow not to tiptoe around the matter. Such is my fervor. Such is my madness.
"Excuse me. Do you sell anal bleach?"
The wheels in her head are instantly set in motion. Nine times out of ten, when a ragged, unshaven man dressed as if he were within the blast radius of a thrift shop explosion asks for anal bleach, something sinister is afoot. She affixes upon me a gaze struggling to express curiosity, pity, fear, and revulsion all at once. It is her last attempt at eye contact.
"Uhhh... we have skin lighteners, if that's what you mean", she says, directing my gaze to the bottom shelf.
I pick up a box of Esoterica Fade Cream. It lists "full face, neck, chest, arms, hands, shoulders, legs, body, and feet" as areas of use, but not the anus. This will not do. Or will it? A bulb clicks on in the part of my brain responsible for "same meat/different gravy" ass experiments. "Would this work down there?" I ask.
"I wouldn't know," she mutters with the dismissive contempt this question admittedly deserves. Sensing impending litigation, I buy the stuff and scurry home. There is work to be done.
While some "artists" waste time dabbling in oil, stone, and clay, biochemical artisans in the real world have found a truly useful medium in anal bleach. With hyperpigmented asshole epidermis as their canvas, Glycyrrhiza glabra root extract and Peg 100 Stearate SE on their palettes, and their fingers as their brushes, these cornhole cosmeticians have unlocked the mysteries of anus enhancement -- and triggered the most exciting craze in the skin care industry today!
Because, let's face it: there's no shortage of reasons to lighten and rejuvenate your anus. Maybe you're tired of porn directors typecasting you as Cum Guzzler with Leathery, Cadaverous Asshole; perhaps a snickering doctor compared your desiccated deuce cannon to the surface of one of Jupiter's volcanic moons; maybe the passage of time, three kids, and umpteen chili dogs has made the ol' o-ring's odometer roll over; possibly your shitbelcher has fallen prey to the indelible stains of Brown Syndrome after years of shoddy hygiene and/or repeat occurrences of splatulence; or maybe you're just like me and find the idea of experimenting with backdoor bunguents to be right up your proverbial alley.
But as Americans find their anal enhancement budgets stretched ever-tighter in these troubling economic times, a question arises: must we shell out $30-50 for a tube of anal bleach in our quest for the Anus de Milo? Or can a cheap jar of drugstore fade cream do the trick just as well?
To find out, I decided to apply two brands of greased lightening to my fundament freckle. The left anal hemisphere was treated with a $9, 2.5 ounce jar of Esoterica, a fade cream commonly used to reduce age spots, freckles, and so on. The right, meanwhile, was infused with a $30, two-ounce tube of Vigala, an anal bleach I ordered on the Internet.
A few notes: I have no affiliation with either product. I chose Esoterica because it was there, and Vigala because it was the first kiester Clorox I found under $45.
My attempts to include a female guinea pig in this experiment met with no success, which was hardly a surprise since tact has never been my strongpoint. "Hi, Pam? It's me, emersunbigguns. Listen, you've always struck me as someone who might suffer from unsightly anal discoloration, and I was wondering if --"
CLICK.
Finally, anal bleaching is not without risks. The skin around the shit chute is extremely sensitive and more likely to become irritated by chemical intrusion. Most creams use hydroquinone, a cosmetic ingredient banned in some countries (high-dosage studies in rats suggest there may be a cancer risk) as their lightening agent. In rare human cases, hydroquinone has been linked to ochronosis, a skin-thickening condition characterized by blue-black discoloration. (Cue Don't It Make My Brown Eye Blue.) Side effects may also include severe burning, itching, swelling, stinging, and/or crusting. Both Esoterica and Vigala have a 2% hydroquinone concentration, the highest allowable by law without a prescription.
Another common bleaching ingredient is kojic acid. As if conjuring images of spreading Telly Savalas' reflux around your anus isn't unsettling enough, kojic acid is used commercially to inhibit "enzymatic browning in crustaceans". In other words, it keeps lobster and crab shells red and fresh-looking. It too has been banned as a cosmetic ingredient in some countries. Vigala uses kojic acid dipalmitate, a kojic acid derivative. Esoterica uses neither.
In short, you may want to do some research before you apply these substances to your body.
That said, let's bleach some bung, shall we?
Day One. I retreat to my subterranean laboratory/basement the minute the anal bleach arrives in the mail. But before I can begin my fecelift, there are matters of deforestation that need to be "rectified" if I am to get an unobstructed view of my target. Grabbing the electric razor, I assume an advanced yoga position interchangeably known as The Shearing of the Unseeing Eye or The Corruption of Innocence to clear-cut the Circle of Loaf of its untamed vegetation and the plump dinglefruit nesting therein. I choke back tears as this once-thriving feekosystem drifts softly to the floor: a sacrifice to the pursuit of knowledge.
I use Lava soap to sandblast the area clean, then squat over a mirror for a look-see. Any doubts I have about this project vanish instantly. This is an orifice in dire need of attention. It isn't simply brown, red, or pink -- it's a turbulent miasma of all three, with a little jaundice thrown in for good measure. It's the Aurora Boreanus. It's a gateway to madness.
Nevertheless: after taking the first in a weekly series of Before and After pictures that will haunt me for the rest of my days, it's time to ride the lightening! Donning latex gloves, I massage first the fade cream and then the anal bleach into their respective gluteal shanks. Shortly thereafter, I realize a patch test may have been in order, as a slight tingling develops on both sides. I spend an anxious few minutes awaiting the five-alarm fire that never materializes.
Day Two. Stripping my stench trench of its plumage has already raised concerns. Without that thin hair buffer, my asscheeks chafe and grind together with every step I take. To paraphrase Cypress Hill, I am in pain in the membrane. I fear this skin-on-skin contact may also increase the production of sweat/sphincter dew, in turn creating a moisture-rich environment for bungi looking for a nice asshole to colonize. Aside from that, all is well.
Day Three. As per the instructions, I've been applying the fade cream twice a DAY, while applying the anal bleach only at night. The fade cream doesn't absorb well, leaving a greasy residue that takes some getting used to; the right cheek's subcutaneous thirst, meanwhile, cannot be quenched. It soaks up the dirtchute dye like a pre-menstrual sponge.
Suffice it to say a brown asshole hasn't gotten this much undeserved attention since Al Sharpton's last press conference.
Day Seven. First week complete. Even though it should take two-to-six weeks before I notice any change (individual results vary depending on the depth of the melanin in the skin), I scrutinize every mortifying megapixel of the first reconnaissance photo for signs of molting. All I discover is a blossoming galaxy of ass acne -- the little red calling cards of shaving against the grain. There's no change around the a-hole itself. Out, damn'd spot!
Day Fourteen. Second week complete. My asshole is a jarring shade of red. This may be an effect of the products, but more likely it's an indictment against the cheap, sandstone-fortified toilet paper I've been using. A gentler brand of shitwipe is added to the grocery list.
Day Nineteen. What started as just another day at the bleach turned ugly this morning. Last night I ate a huge bowl of fruit salad that apparently missed the "All aboard!" cry for the steaming caravan I call The Morning Dump Express. Mere minutes after this raging locomotive left the station (and just before the AM fade cream application), a commotion in my lower tract signaled an impending case of squirtigo. A dizzying deluge of pineapple stilettos, blueberry pellets, husky gourd filaments, and apple shrapnel shattered the calm. I hadn't seen fruits hurtle through the air that violently since the circle pit at The Village People concert. The tangy stench of methane and riboflavin still befouled the air when the onslaught resumed fifteen minutes later. And again a half-hour after that. At this point, the cream became an afterthought. I was more worried someone would find my broken body days later in a pool of splintered bowel and heavy syrup.
It was the only time I missed an application.
Day Twenty-one. Third week complete. That goddamn fruit salad threw my log-a-rhythm all out of whack. Two mornings in a row I was duped into applying the Esoterica after The Morning Dump Express departed, only to find myself wiping it away minutes later after a fractured follow-up dump. Today I actually waited until I got to work before I applied the cream.
Without running the results through a spectrosphincometer, it appears both sides have taken on a light purplish hue. Only time will tell whether this is a sign of vitality... or lividity.
Day Twenty-Eight. Fourth week complete. Things around the old one-ring circus have settled back into a rhythm, but it appears my brown eye has cataracts. Both sides are a somber shade of pinkish-gray that one would be hard-pressed to find on a color palette at Sherwin-Williams. (Out of curiosity, I went to Sherwin-Williams to see if they did in fact have a similarly-hued color chip. To my astonishment, they did. So if you're looking to paint your kitchen in a partially-resuscitated asshole motif, head to this fine retailer and ask for SW 6022 - Breathless).
Day Thirty-Five. The recon photos confirm the impossible: after five weeks and 104 rounds of fingering myself, both rectal walls have been purged of their fecal frescoes! Vibrant pink bungflesh (on the order of SW 6575 - Priscilla, for those scoring at home) has risen from the depths like some kind of anal Lazarus! A jubilant cry rings out from the lab: "This anus... is heinous... NO MORE!!!"
And then, far away in the distance, a faint rustling.
My ancestors thrash in their graves.
The End Results. I recommend Esoterica to all you potential posterior peroxiders. It may not be listed for use on the anus, you have to apply it twice as often, and it leaves an oily residue; but you get more of it for a fraction of the price. Plus, it works just as well as anal bleach, and it's available at any drugstore.
As for me, I have a prostate exam, two cavity searches, and a photo shoot for Whiter Shade of Tail magazine scheduled today. The future's so bright, I gotta wear fade (cream). | |
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