The 411 on the #2

In an ongoing effort to keep this blog classy, today I have chosen a topic of discussion that will elevate our forum to a new level of taste and decorum: poop. It is certainly not the first time I have discussed this. How can we forget the unfortunate mishap of poop in the trash can or the story of the poopy diaper left at the table? Both good stories, indeed, but let us delve deeper into the dark brown mystery of pooing in public.



Last week, I had a moment that made me question every life choice I have ever made. It happened when I went into the bathroom to blow out the candles and close up for the night. When I opened the door, a wall of odor knocked me down and raped my olfactory system. That smell tied me up, gagged me, and had its unprotected way with my nose. Someone had way too many lentils in their diet and used our restaurant bathroom to release the hounds of hell from their bowels into our toilet. I don't know about you, but I need optimum conditions for doing a number two anywhere else but my own home. There is a whole formula that goes into account before I decide if it is worth pooping in a public restroom: how badly do I need to go, what are the consequences of holding it, how clean is the bathroom, is it a single use bathroom, what type of toilet paper is there, what is the likelihood of people knocking on the door and most importantly, will the smell seep out of the bathroom and let others know what I was doing in there? I know we all poop, but I still find it easier to pretend that we all don't.



I hate cleaning the bathroom at my job. When it comes time for that, a simple sweep with a dry broom is about as far as I am willing to go. My cheap ass manager won't spring for liners for the trash cans, so when it's time to empty them, there is always the chance of a runaway tampon popping out to say hello. It's not easy to empty a trash can without actually touching it, but I have managed to do it with the use of multiple paper towel and good balance. One time the trash can rubbed up against my shirt and I just about fainted right there. The only thing that kept me from fainting was knowing that if I did, I would then end up actually touching the floor with my face. Seeing that I don't even like my shoes to touch the bathroom floor, my face touching it is not an option.



But there I was last week surrounded by the smell of hell. It was like a skunk made love to a rotten egg and then rolled around in Jennifer Lopez Live Eau de Parfum Spray. I bolted out of the bathroom and looked for the offender. I suspected the cook but the dishwasher looked mighty guilty too. I took a deep breath and went back in to fill the soap dispenser and make sure there were paper towels. Once out of the bathroom, I released the breath and prepared to go back in. I took another deep breath and grabbed the candle and trash can. This process was repeated three times making me hyperventilate and wish that I was anything in the world other than a waiter who had to do a goddamn bathroom check at the end of the night.



I suppose some people can do a number two any time and anywhere and if it means they do it in a restaurant, then so be it. I'm just not programmed for that. At my other job, I work with a guy who has no issue with it whatsoever. On my first day there, I walked into the bathroom where I found him standing next to the stall with his pants unbuttoned and his hands on his hips. "Bad news, dude. The toilet's clogged and I just took a huge dump." "Oh, okay," I said. "It's nice to meet you."



What a shitty job I have sometimes. And by the way, does anyone else hate this commercial for Angel Soft where the guy keeps yelling to his wife that they're all out of toilet paper? "Can you toss me a roll?" he asks repeatedly. You know what, dude? How about you keep the extra toilet paper in the bathroom instead of asking your wife to keep throwing it at you. Or better yet, go get it your fucking self, lazy ass. And also on the subject of toilet paper commercials, I am sick of seeing those goddamn Charmin bears who always have toilet paper dingle berries hanging off their asses. Hey ad execs: bears may shit in the woods but they don't use toilet paper and everyone I know thinks those commercials are disgusting. Stop it.



And this concludes my classy and elegant discussion about poo.



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Who Really Gives A Crap?

Sometimes it's not easy to think of something to write about and then lo and behold, I look in my inbox and someone has sent me a story that cries out for my spin on it. I have written about pubic hair in food, jizz in food and now a new topic: poop in food. The story is from 2008, but it still needs to be discussed. Apparently, some customer in Sydney, Australia once accused a chef of putting doody all up in a bowl of ice cream and then serving it to her table. The article does not say what flavor the ice cream was, but I am going to go out on a dark colored limb and say it was chocolate mocha with caramel swirl and dingleberry delight. According to the vast amount of research I did (I read this article), the patron complained that the music was too loud and they couldn't hear a televised football game, or rugby or kangaroo soccer, or whatever the fuck they call it, so they complained. Next thing they knew, some bitch had a mouthful of dirty diaper rejects. "The stench went through my nostrils, I retched and spat it into the napkin," said the poop-eating whore. Now, I wasn't there and I have absolutely no idea what really happened, but it seems highly unlikely that a cook is going to go through the trouble to squeeze out some business just because someone complained about the noise level of the music. First off, I have never met a cook who gave a shit (hee, hee...gave a shit...) about what was happening in the front of the house. Secondly, wouldn't it be way more trouble than it's worth to take a squat on a bowl of ice cream? I mean, he wouldn't do it right there in the kitchen in front of everyone and I can't imagine that he would actually bother to scoop out ice cream and then carry the dish all the way to the bathroom to release his bowels on it. And what about the patron lady of scat? When she looked at her glass dish of ice cream, did she not notice that something about it wasn't quite right? Again, I have never seen crap mixed into ice cream, but I think it would look odd. Maybe the flies buzzing around it, the smell or the kernels of corn would be a dead giveaway. But what do I know? I don't know shit.

So who is telling the truth? The customers said that the restaurant offered them $5,000 in hush money but the restaurant said they wanted a million. The staff was willing to take DNA tests to prove that the poop wasn't theirs. But that doesn't mean shit either because the poop could have belonged to a koala bear, a dingo or some other Australian inhabitant that refused to submit to DNA testing. Or it was possibly the poop of the customer herself and she as looking for a way to cash in on her own excrement. Since the story is over two years old, I can't find any follow up to it, so I am not sure what happened. So I shall assume:

The DNA tests came back and confirmed that the ice cream did in fact have a helping heaping of hot poo in it but it did not match the DNA of the restaurant employees. The woman refused to submit to DNA testing and the case was dropped with no monies changing hands. The restaurant went on to great success with a new ad campaign that said "Eat Here. We Don't Crap in Your Ice Cream, Mate. G'day." The chef created a new sundae called "Fudge Packed" that won the coveted Golden Spoon of Down Under Award for best new dessert. The customer went on to find money and fame in a video that went viral. It was called Two Girls, One Cup. (I will not link to that video, but Google it if you really wanna know.) She was most recently seen in front of the Sydney Opera House sitting on a portable toilet and calling it an art exhibit. While Men at Work blasted in the background, she held a cardboard sign that said "I Will Poop for a Vegemite Sandwich."

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