Wednesday, August 02, 2017
Big Jobs
A few days ago, the manager of the safari camp invited me to inspect one of his turds.
“You’ve got to look at, GB, it’s massive!” he exclaimed. “I’d like to know whether a gorilla could shit out something like that! I purposely didn’t flush so you could authenticate it!”
“My dear manager,” I replied. “You are gravely mistaken in thinking I am qualified to pass judgement on your excrement. I suggest you take a picture of the toilet bowl and send it to experts in the field.”
“And who might they be?” he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders and told him his guess was as good as mine. Maybe I should have given him the name of an elephant trainer. Or, indeed, an elephant.
Most humans, of course, have much greater inhibitions about discussing their solid waste. I don’t know whether this is a good or bad thing. Perhaps, on balance, it’s for the best. It would be very tedious if everyone left the toilet unflushed after producing a notable stool. But the other side of the coin is humans who hold it in because they’re too embarrassed to evacuate their bowels in an unfamiliar lavatory.
After doing my own research on the subject, I found an article claiming that 50% of women and 29% of men are worried about having to defecate in their place of work. Why more women suffer from this anxiety is an interesting question. Perhaps they think that shitting (and farting) is unladylike. It’s certainly difficult to imagine Audrey Hepburn or Julie Andrews having a dump – and yet we know they must have done it like everyone else. Perhaps they should have spoken more openly about their bowel movements – it might have dissipated the cloud of shame that hangs over the whole subject.
The article makes a number of helpful suggestions for how to lessen the angst of a workplace poop. Number one on the list is listening to music when sitting in the cubical. The idea is that you won’t worry about the noise you’re making if you can’t hear it yourself. This reminds me, somewhat, of an ostrich burying its head in the sand. But that doesn’t mean it’s ineffective in the circumstances. Anything that helps someone shit in peace has my blessing.
Number seven on the list is “Don’t be a dick to other office poo-ers”. I heartily endorse this. Heckling someone who’s having a difficult time in the lavatory is a prime example of boorish manners. No one who indulges in this sort of behaviour deserves any mercy when they’re parping and plopping themselves.
The most interesting point on the list concerns the financial implications – “when you poo at work, you’re getting paid to shit”. Although this is technically true, it also deprives you of a more leisurely poo in your own home. My old circus buddy, Smacker Ramrod, says that emptying your bowels on a day of leisure while reading a magazine is one of the great sensual pleasures of life. Is he wrong?
Labels: embarrassment, Poo-poo, shit, turds
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Bog standard
Paul McCartney has revealed that he finished off many of his greatest songs while sitting on the toilet. Thus, the final verse of Let It Be was written while Paul was pooping in the gentleman’s lavatory at EMI studios. It reached number two in the British charts.
It’s much harder to compose a catchy tune while taking a leak, of course. The “tinkle-tinkle” noise is too distracting for most songwriters. Evacuating the bowels, by contrast, involves lengthy periods of silence interrupted by occasional bursts of wind and percussion. It is said that Beethoven composed his fifth symphony after a heavy lunch of bratwurst and ale.
Although it’s nice of Paul to tell us his song-writing secrets, I’m not really sure I wanted to know. An artist should preserve the mystique of his artistry, so the public remains in awe of his creative genius. When I was in the circus, I performed a conjuring trick that made the audience believe a clown had given birth to a snake. If anyone asked me how I did it, I told them it was voodoo magic from the darkest jungles of Africa.
Now, some would say that Paul hasn’t written a great song in the last 40 years, so his toilet technique must have faltered fairly quickly after the first flush of exuberance. Maybe the break-up of the Beatles affected the regularity of his bowel movements. There is, however, another explanation for the evaporation of his creative juices. A songwriter who achieves prolific early success is often distracted by other pursuits. In Paul’s case it was sumo wrestling. His interest in this oriental oddity arose when he toured Japan in 1993, and he now attends the major tournaments.
Paul only participates as a spectator, of course. He would not be such a fool to compete in a sport designed for stupendously fat men who enjoy wearing nappies. His love of the moob-wobbling spectacle inspired him to sponsor a stable of wrestlers to promote his latest album. He wisely refrained from composing a tribute ballad for them – how could it have improved on I am the Walrus, which John Lennon wrote 48 years ago?
But I shouldn’t give you the impression that I despise sumo wrestlers. They wouldn’t go far in the jungle, but why would they need to? You don’t have to worry about your lack of mobility if you can earn a billion yen by waddling about inside a ring small enough for a cat orgy. I did say they were fat, but I meant that as a description rather than an insult.
In truth, I hate it when humans use the word “fat” as a term of abuse. The latest victim of this nauseating habit was Britney Spears, who was called a fat bitch while performing in concert. I’m glad that Britney gave the heckler a choice riposte of her own, and am mystified that some commentators have criticised her for doing so. You can’t expect a buxom diva to take it lying down.
Labels: Britney Spears, Paul McCartney, Poo-poo, song-writing, sumo, sumo wrestler
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
The art of making crap
A correspondent draws my attention to a ground-breaking exhibit in Australia’s Museum of New Art. It is a device that mimics the mammalian digestive system by converting food into faeces. This poo-poo machine has been lauded for producing exquisitely malodorous turds which visitors can sniff at their leisure. Few of them are up to the challenge:
“It put me off because of the overwhelming assault on the senses,” declared Diane Malnic, a Sydney-based accountant.
Perhaps the senses of an accountant are rather too easy to overwhelm. An honest farmer, who knows the value of muck, might react more favourably. This machine wasn’t intended for namby-pamby city dwellers who have never fisted a four-legged beast.
The manager of the safari camp grinned facetiously when I told him about it.
“I always knew modern art was shit and now someone’s proved it!” he quipped.
That’s easy for him to say, but what does he know about art? The museum’s mission statement is to “shock, offend, inform and entertain” as if those were the relevant criteria. Frankly, I have my doubts. Watching Jerry Springer ticks all of those boxes, but not even an ignorant baboon would confuse that with art.
In my humble opinion, this turd-machine is a brilliant piece of technology rather than a work of art. Breaking down food, extracting the nutrients and shitting out the remnants is an amazing feat to perform mechanically. It makes one ponder about the true nature of food. Consider the following mathematical equations:
Shit = Food – Nutrients
therefore:
Food = Nutrients + Shit
therefore:
Food contains shit.
Is there a flaw in this logical proof? I sent an email to my friend Dicky Dawkins, who knows about these things, and he assured me that he wasn’t a shit-eater. Apparently, the excrement one expunges from the bowels acquires its shitty characteristics from the bacteria in the gut and other chemical processes. Making poo-poo is a mysterious and complex biological process, no less wondrous than the metamorphosis of a caterpillar into a butterfly. Remember to feel awed the next time you have a dump.
Not all shit is the same, of course. In general, the most foul-smelling, disgusting excrement is produced by carnivorous creatures. I remember opening the door of a portable lavatory back in my circus days:
“Pooh!” I exclaimed. “Has one of the big cats been doing its business in here?”
“Sorry, GB, it was me,” said one of the female acrobats, blushing furiously. “I had steak for dinner last night.”
“Little girl make big stink!” I replied with an avuncular grin.
This incident taught me that the poo-poo of a pretty girl can be as vile and offensive as anything a hyena can produce. If you don’t want to make a stink in the bathroom, the only solution is to adopt the diet of a gorilla. Our dung is not much worse than Fresh Umbrian Clay with a hint of guacamole. But you’ll have to give up meat; there are no shortcuts in life.
Labels: Art, Poo-poo, technology, turds
