The Mind of Spaz

Not too long ago, my parents downsized their house. It was about time too – that 3000 square foot monstrosity of a McMansion was too big for them, me and my sister, let alone them for the past 12 or so years. So now, instead of a house four times the size of mine, they have a house only 2 1/2 the size of mine.

‘Downsizing’.

Anyways, as part of their move my old man spent upwards of my yearly salary redoing the house.   Part of that was the kitchen, and guess what?  I got the cabinets. Not that I’m complaining. These cabinets are only 5 years older than I am, instead of the ones I have which are 35 years older than I am. In other words, a significant improvement.

So, with hope in my heart, a gleam in my eye, myself and my hired contractor set off to redo the kitchen using the old/new cabinets.

As an aside, good quality floors are a flipping FORTUNE nowadays. What the hells with that? I asked the guy if for that price it would blow me.  He said he’d blow me. I said ew no thanks. He said it’ll still be $711.21 for the floor.  Bastard.

The contractor I have is good.  Really good. He knows what he’s doing I tell you. He’s the retired fire chief, works for my parents, has a lot of years of experience, and is damned spry for a 65 year old. There’s only one problem.

He farts.

Now, ordinarily that would be no issue whatsoever. I like farting myself. But you know, it’s ALL THE TIME. When he bends over. When he gets up. when he leans to one side or the other. When he uses a drill, or a saw, or a screwdriver, or sighs, or goes up the stairs, or goes down, or goes inside, or goes outside, he farts.

And they are long. And they stink. And they are wet.

It got so bad the other day that even when he wasn’t farting, he smelled like fart. I believe that’s because he sharted himself.

Regardless, I can suck it up. Because he’s a great contractor and he’s cheap. And lets face it, when he’s gone I can air out the house. Might take a week or two, but I’ll have a new kitchen AND a house that doesn’t smell like fart.

Win.

good things, poo fart, house, shart

The gods have struck me down, given me a blow to which I have reeled and I’m not sure a full recovery is possible.

You see, I have a new inspector from the health unit.  She’s working under new regulation that requires her to inspect each and every one of our small water systems, at length, with me there as she’s grilling me with inane questions. And yes, she’s offensive to ALL the senses.  She is:

• Incredibly ugly and fat, offending my eyes
• Disgustingly greasy and clammy, offending my right hand (when we shake hands you pervs)
• Her broken English is screechy and never ending, making me want to poke out my eardrums with ice pics

But that’s not the worst.  You see, she’s a close talker.  And if you edge away for personal space, she edges closer to you.  I swear, we ended up halfway to Toronto that way in the space of a two hour meeting.

Your probably saying “But Spaz! You only mentioned sight, sound and touch! There are two other senses!”.  You’re right, there are two other senses.

You see, her greasy appearance is most likely due to her unwillingness to bathe.  Apparently for her the 10 minute daily routine of stepping into a shower, lathering up with an $0.80 bar of soap and rinsing off is too complicated.  No, instead she pours on gallons and gallons of horribly cheap perfume, probably right on her nasty gooey snatch.

The taste part comes in with the smell.  Have you ever smelled something so bad you can taste it? That’s her.

Today, both my boss and I were with her, and she was EXTRA offensive.  My eyes turned red, I couldn’t control my coughing, and I was on the verge of puking. All this coming from a guy who thinks poop is funny.

So him and I have devised a plan.  Next time we have to see her, we’re going to load up on roughage: Cabbage, broccoli, curried foods, beans and the like. We’re going to do that two hours before we see her, and stand at either side of her.

And let off the SBD’s in turn.

That’ll teach her for being stinky.

good things, poo fart, house, shart

A certain somebody left this rather surprising comment on my blog the other day:

On another note, damn do you talk about shitting a lot.

Well yea. Poo is funny. Bodily functions in general is funny.  Anybody who is cool understands that.

You also understand that if you’re a mommy blogger.  We all know how much mommy bloggers suck, because it’s only funny if it’s coming out of their little ugly babies orifices.

ALL bodily functions are funny.

So to commemorate poo, and to commemorate my poo commentor, I give you some poo de motivational posters.

Enjoy.

good things, poo fart, house, shart

For Vyolet. May the farts be with you.

good things, poo fart, house, shart

….. But it wasn’t.

I thought it was just two and a half hours of hell. But it was more, much more. It lasted for the next few days.

It started the night of. I thought I was going to be ok. It had been 10 hours since my last meal and I wanted to test out my now fragile digestive system. And so I downed a small piece of dry white toast. Apparently, that was enough food to dislodge another round of liquidy bum pow.

A few hours later, I tried soup and a sandwich to the same result. Yay me.

And the fun continued. The gas! Oh the gas! My gut was producing gas in quantities to power New Orleans during Mardi Gras. With the exception that ass gas doesn’t let me see boobs. No, this was far and above my normal flatulent self.

There is a problem with my new found friend.

You see, I found that my new gaseous companion was actually a gamble. If I thought it was gas, it was more likely his best buddy shart. And so, it became a gamble I was likely to lose. I don’t gamble to lose, so I stopped gambling, and that really put a damper on my free time.

The next morning it was time for my regularly scheduled poo. Yes, I schedule poo time. I’ve trained my body to expel waste first thing in the morning. That way, I minimize toilet paper consumption and make use of my shower head to clean up the mess. Don’t judge, it works.

Sitting down on the cold porcelain, I open the trap door to let the bomb fly. Only it wasn’t a bomb. Some jackass had replaced my bum rocket with ass molasses. Cleaning that up wasn’t wiping. It was like daubing a bleeding wound.

It continued. It happened at 9 am at work. I was trying to get my second cup of coffee and was re-routed on my way to the kitchen. I never made it to the kitchen.

Just after lunch it happened again. And again. At three, it happened yet again.  And then I left work to find something very interesting.

You see, after the fourth runny ass vomit, my anus was sore. Very sore, and throbbing.  Throbbing loudly.  I thought that I was the only one who could hear it, but I was wrong. There was a contingent of hippies outside dancing to the beat of the throbbing. They had thought it was a love in. They were wrong, so very wrong.

It’s now Tuesday, three days after I subjected myself to the colon cleanse.  I finally have had a solid shit and I’m no longer afraid to fart.

Kids, there is a moral to this story.

Don’t be stupid like Uncle Spaz.

‘Nuff Said.

good things, poo fart, house, shart