Oliver the orphan turd

Dressing rooms are not a proper venue for defecation.

How I wish I could say I’d never had any kind of experience involving someone else’s abandonded tighty-whities, a large broom handle, and rogue fecal matter.

But then I’d be lying.

I was closing up the skate shop I worked at during college.  It was late, all the customers had left and I had just sent my sales kids home for the night.  I was locking the gate when the phone rang.

My boss Harrison was on the other end attempting to communicate through fits of hysterical laughter.

“Ry, I’m sorry to do this to you but………well………I need you to go into the dressing room.  There’s something under the bench…..and I’m pretty sure…..yea, I’m pretty sure it’s poop.”

Harrison was calling from the pub down the street.  He’d spotted the turd earlier in the evening and decided to leave it there.  What better way to gross out your only female employee than by calling her after four bottles of Bud to request she look under the bench to discover the not-so-buried treasure.

Of course, I didn’t instantly go into the dressing room.  I had some questions first.

“Hey drunky-what makes you think I’m going to go on a crap-hunt as I’m walking out the door?  Did you put something scary under there and you just want to freak me out like that time you put the plastic severed hand in there?  Is that what this is all about?  Do you honestly expect me to believe that some kid shat his underwear and shoved them under our bench?!?!”

Each question brought forth a wheeze of uncontrollable laughter.  At some point he put me on speaker phone and I could hear the rest of the bar and several drunken coworkers cheering.

“Ry, I just need you to go and see it.”

“Harrison, I’m not touching poop.  It’s just not happening.”

At this point I could hear the sixty year old bartender who served us bottles because he’d never cleaned a pint glass in his life holler out:  “Come on sweetheart, you can do it!”

And so, cheered on via speakerphone by a group of men in a dive bar, I knelt down on the dressing room floor.  Looking under the bench I unfortunately spotted the lone ranger of the toilet world.   Sadly sighing there in the worn fabric, ashamed of himself, of his master, and of his current living situation.

Oliver, the orphan turd of the skate-shop dressing room.

I screamed out ‘disgusting’ to the sound of clinking glasses and a far-off call for a round of jager bombs.

Not that I did anything about it.  Despite his greatest efforts, Harrison and his band of brothers could not convince me to retrieve the fruit nor the loom from the cement floor.  Oliver spent the night there that evening.

The next morning I made a saleskid dispose of the situation with a broomhandle.  The underwear, the feces, and the handle all ended up in the dumpster that day.  Harrison stood by, one hand clutching a coffee, the other rubbing his temple as he pieced together his evening of crap-swapping tales amongst the men of the dive bar.  Evidently they’d all bonded over this while shooting darts and placing bets on whether or not I’d take care of the situation.

Overnight, Oliver had become a sensation.

I’ll never know how he got there or if he belonged to Harrison, but I bet there’s never been feces with as great a following as the lone turd and his beer-guzzling companions.

Bulldog+salami=gasmask

Indy has spent the majority of the morning trying to bite her own ass.

I blame the salami she managed to inhale in the two seconds it fell on the kitchen floor this morning.

Evidently, salami + Indy = flatulence.

I’ve been catching up on the blogs I read, and every few minutes I hear what sounds like a whoopie cushion, followed by a bark, and then a tasmanian-devil masquerading as my dog scurries across the floor in circles, trying to bite her own butt.  She is under the impression it is under attack.

Since it is distracting, I have attempted the following two methods to rid her of the gas so that I can continue about my day in relatively clean air:

1.  I tried squeezing her from either side.  This resulted in a pathetic glance and snort, followed by a long yawn.

2.  I tried squeezing her head backwards into her body, like an accordion.  This was in the hopes that all air would be pushed back and out.  Result: Slobbery hand.  Well that and she sat in the corner with her back to me for about five minutes, glancing over her shoulder every so often to make sure I noted her disapproval of my fart-free tactics.  She remained in that position until of course, she loudly tooted again.

So now she’s back to running around in circles, in what has got to be the most effort anything French has ever put up against an attack.

Seriously.

Freedom Fries my ass.

Well, her ass-as the case may be.