Get Your Potty Humor Here
For reasons beyond my comprehension, scatological satire, commonly known as potty humor, is incredibly popular at our house.
Scintillating conversations of such matters typically take place around the dinner table.
What could possibly be more delightful than sitting down to a tasty steak dinner and a nice Merlot, complete with the often-told ballads of daring dodo?
When my family runs out of stool shenanigans to discuss, they will concern themselves instead with the foods that most commonly cause enthusiastic excretion. The most notable of these foods is actually an entire grouping of foodstuffs, served at our local Strip Mall Mexican Joint.
For the sake of propriety, we shall call this establishment, Pooperros.
Because of its convenient location, we often patronized Pooperros when we first moved to the area. Sadly, within a few months, a Strip-Mall-Mexican-Food-Moratorium was issued. We always went home with our taste buds happy and our bellies full, but a cold bowl could not be found in our abode. The moratorium was a unanimous family decision.
Last weekend, the moratorium was lifted. Good friends invited us to dine with them at the previously banned eatery, and we were disinclined to decline. This turned out to be a mistake of gastric proportions. The eldest of our children piped up on the way home.
“I call mom’s bathroom.”
Then the middle child, “I call guest bathroom.”
Then the littlest one, “I guess I get the upstairs.”
My husband and I exchanged ‘all-okay-here’ shrugs. I was enjoying a warm, fuzzy, no-pain-margarita-bliss.
When we arrived home, our progeny went their separate ways to hold court on their rightful thrones. I discovered an enormous pile of laundry impeding my ability to flop happily onto the bed. My bliss evaporated rapidly with each t-shirt and sock that I turned right-side-in. Then the eldest emerged from the master bath, wearing a frightened expression.
“Mom, I think I clogged the toilet. And it’s bad. Real bad.”
Bliss was now nonexistent, replaced by a dull, thumping, headache. I snapped.
“Well don’t just stand there! Go get the plunger!”
I kept on turning and folding. My insides were now being squeezed in a vice-like grip. The eldest returned from the garage with plunger in hand. My unwillingness to help with this poopscapade must have been obvious. The eldest did not approach and attempt to hand me the plunger. Instead she asked,
“Uh, how do you do it?”
This child would soon be operating a motor vehicle and couldn’t figure out how to wield a plunger. My patience was gone, and my headache exploded as I shouted,
“YOU STICK IT IN THE HOLE AND YOU PUMP IT!”
I then hoisted my basket of fresh-folded clothes and stalked out of the bedroom. As I passed the guest bathroom the door opened, and the middle child opened his mouth to proclaim,
“Heh. That’s what she said.”
See me carrying the basket of laundry down the hall? See the crankaphonic expression on my face? See this comment whizzing right over my head as I focus solely on how to get the basket up the stairs while squeezing my butt cheeks together to keep my insides inside?
I responded to this little expression with, “Oh knock it off,” and squeezed tighter.
I was standing at the foot of the stairs when I heard a noise to my left. I turned, hoping it was my husband coming to rescue me from my predicament. Alas, he was not. Apparently, Mr. Hilarious had been hanging hoodies on the coat rack when he had a sudden seizure. He was now clinging to it for dear life.
I looked back at my thirteen-year-old son, and then at my husband again.
Ding! Give that mom a prize! She finally got it!
As a parent, I should have been mad at the precocious child. But who can be mad when your husband is about to rip the coat rack from the wall because he’s trying to keep from rolling on the floor?
I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I dropped my basket and ran to the bathroom, giggling hysterically between groans of pain.
The Strip-Mall-Mexican-Food-Moratorium has been reissued,
but you can always get your potty humor here.