Category: poop

Done and Dusted

What’s up Red Sox?

Hey how’s it going? Yeah, not good. I noticed. You look like death warmed over.

I had intended on writing something completely different today. Something fun and light hearted and possibly hilarious. Possibly.

Sadly, it was not meant to be. Because this happened.

Right now, I’d like to be one of those fans that can ‘check out’ when everything starts swirling down the toilet, but I’m not, and I don’t know if I ever could be.  To be honest, I’d be more than fashionably late to that party now anyway. I’d be the drunk asshole who shows up to your house at two in the morning drunk out of my mind and proceed to fondle your girlfriend’s boobs while I thought you weren’t looking. Because, damn Red Sox, you be fucking with my emotions. And the best way I can express myself at this time is by groping your lady’s mams.

As you well know, you started this asinine behaviour this time last year. I tolerated it at first. Thinking it was just a phase and you would stop as you had before. But this time it was different. You were different and I couldn’t quite put my finger on what was going on. So I hung around. I waited. I thought you knew what you were doing. You didn’t, I now realise.

And it’s not going to end. Not in the foreseeable future anyway. From my calculations we have exactly 13 more months and a metric ton of shit to dig through before there’s even half a chance of seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.

You can call it ‘restructuring’ or ‘rebuilding’ or whatever the fuck you want; I call your lack of foresight and front office transparency a massive middle finger to the people who make your franchise a lucrative one. It’s gotten to the point that there really aren’t a lot of nice things I can say about you these days. You’ve got a few shining beacons left knocking around the clubhouse, but for how much longer, who can say?

I’m here to tell you Red Sox, as your friendly relationship advisor, you need to sort yourself out because you’re ruining this. Ruining US. You have the adoration of the masses and more than a million people who are effectively so in love with you that, even though you continue fucking all of us in our mud holes with absolutely no lube, we carry on asking for more. Begging you to plug our poop chutes with your sandpaper knobs because for some reason we like that sort of thing.

I remember my grandfather imparting some very insightful wisdom when I was just a wee tot sat on his knee in 1986 (I’m sure the significance is not lost) he said – You can say you’re done, but you never are. They’ll break your heart only to mend it and lift you up only to crush you at a later time.

And it’s true. We only leave to come back. At least that’s what you keep telling us.

We always hear the nonsense phrase that ‘without the bad you cannot truly appreciate the good’. You become lazy, flaccid and complacent when you don’t have to work hard for anything. But dropping a ball off a cliff that cannot be scaled and then asking someone to bring it back to you after you’ve kicked them swiftly off the edge with a smug look on your face is not the way to go about getting that hard work done.

Buck up, take a deep fucking breath and apologise. To us. We deserve it. And if you don’t think so? All may well be shattered, at least for now. Otherwise, whilst you may not lose us forever, we’ll never quite love you the way we used to.

Yours in life and in baseball, Platy


They like to say things sometimes

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Suppository Silent Treatment

I wasn’t a sickly child, but when I did get ill I seemed to do it extraordinarily well. When I was about ten I came down with a bout of meningitis and spent six days in the hospital. Nothing huge; just fluids and antibiotics and pukeing on five or six different people in quick succession and a lumbar puncture that was oh-so-much fun. Most kids might freak out about a hospital stay but because my mum was in medicine I was used to the environment, and my biggest memory from the whole ordeal was being pissed off that the day I was going to be allowed solid foods (finally!), they discharged me. I still rue the day I didn’t get my hospital pancakes and fruit cup!

Anyway…

Cut to a week later and I have to go in for a quick check up with my mum to make sure my preadolescent engine was ticking over as it should. The nurse asked all the typical questions; was I eating, how was I sleeping, did I seem to be getting back to my old self, was I using the toilet regularly. All yes. Except. Except what? Well, I was going to the toilet, but I told the nurse my tummy hurt because I hadn’t pooped in about a week.

The nurse took this in stride, said that it was sometimes normal not to poo because my little body had been through the ringer, she had just the thing to help push it along the way. She then turned around and grabbed two small pill-like things from a drawer behind her and set them aside. She then said she was going leave the room for a minute while I took off my pants and put on a hospital gown.

Okay, this is where my brain really starts heading into overdrive. Was I going back into the hospital? Why did I need to put a gown on? Why did I only have to take my pants off to take some pills? That was weird. Never shy, I asked my mum.

Me: Why do I have to take my pants off to take the medicine?

Mum: Well, those are called suppositories and in order for them to work, you have to put them in your bum. (Never one to mince words, my mother.)

Me: *SHOCKHORROR* WHY?!? IN MY BUTT?? BY THOR’S HAMMER (I was really into Norse mythology, even at ten) WHY …IN MY BUTT …MOOOOOM!? Noooooo!

At this point, with my mother stifling a laugh, the nurse returned to the room and asked me to lay down on my side and draw my knees up to my chest and we would get this done. I think may have started crying at this point, not from fear, but from the sheer inability to conceive why people would stick things UP THEIR BUTT to feel better. I think because of this the nurse then asked me if I would feel more comfortable if my mum ‘administered the medicine’. Immediately my mother protested with an emphatic ‘I’m not doing it’ with that tone in her voice that I knew I shouldn’t argue and just get this whole debacle over with.

It was over before it started- and as anal probes go, I reckon it could have been a lot worse but that didn’t change the fact that I was now very, very upset with my mum. So much so, I refused to speak with her on the drive home. And then for the following three days.

On the fourth day of the UPMYBUTT scandal I heard mum on the phone in the other room speaking to my GramCracka, filling her in on all the sordid details of my previous illness and the subsequent doctor’s visit…

Mum: …I don’t know, Ma. She’s a tough kid. I mean she managed a giant needle in her spine without flinching the week before, there had to have been something about the suppos….here she is, why don’t you ask her.

Mexican stand-off moment; mum holding the phone out to me and me attempting to give her the stinkiest of stink-eyes I could muster. I walked slowly over to her outstretched hand and took the phone. I exchanged pleasantries with GramCracka for a minute and then she asked me why I was busting my mum’s chops so badly.

I looked down and started mumbling something, but then in a fit of lucidity I burst out with BECAUSE SHE WOULDN’T STICK HER FINGERS IN MY BUM, SHE MADE THE NURSE DO IT!

Then suddenly- probably realizing how ridiculous I was being once I finally said it out loud- I looked up at my mum and devolved into fits of giggles, unable to contain myself.

Also, if you’re wondering (and I know you are) I pooped about two hours after we arrived home from the appointment.  I deserve a trophy.


what otters think about…

Obviously, they are not as evolved as us platypii…es…uses…ussy  Whatever.

otterfart

 


The *real* platypus poop post

I am under no delusions of grandeur that this blog is wildly popular by any means.  It serves as more an exercise in mental masturbation for me and hopefully gives the few people who actually know about it a giggle.  But there has been a disturbing trend pretty much since its inception.  People seem to stumble upon my little corner of the internet in search of Platypus Poop.

The top searches that lead people here are in short: platypus poop, platypus f(a)eces, platypus droppings and platypus shit.  (More recently the searches have diversified into the realms of what Dobermans think, ant pile and badass chilli, though they are a small percentage.)  I feel kind of bad about this, particularly if it’s some poor kid attempting to research the humble platypus and its respective poo, only to be accosted by a slightly unhinged and sweary collection of stories written by a slightly unhinged and sweary expat with a bit too much time on her hands.

It got me thinking though, how could people find this particular blog with that particular combination of words?  So I did my own search and found something incredibly interesting.  There is a huge hole in the interwebs regarding the toilet habits and, er, leavings of the platypus.  So, young friends, I am here to help you.

As the platypus is a small mammal that has a varied diet of plants, larvae and small freshwater shrimp I would reckon that their poop is probably small and pellet like.  Similar to that of a rabbit (maybe?).  Deeper (much, much deeper) searching leads me to another assessment that it resembles hamster poo, but I don’t know how accurate this is because the domestic hamster and the platypus are very different creatures.
So let’s say rabbit/hamster to settle the debate.  And there you have it.  If there’s anyone out there that actually knows what it looks like or has a picture of said shiz, I would appreciate your input.  Because, and I don’t know if this is a good or bad thing, when I do an image search for it this website pops up not once or twice, but FIVE times, on the first page no less.  There is a hankering for this information, folks, so I’m just trying to fill the gap.  I appreciate that my photos are turning up in a search, but I can’t imagine the thoughts that must run through people’s minds when they’re conducting a simple search to satisfy their curiosity and are accosted by a giant bowl of refried beans.  Which, may resemble crap but I assure you tastes infinitely better.

Also, there seems to be another search that brings people here and that is platypus meat.  And…seriously?!?  Platypus meat? Why?  Do people actually eat platypus?  What do they taste like?

As for the remainder of the searches- Dobermans probably mostly think about chasing things and likely don’t really care for getting pissed on, ant piles can be dangerous and painful, and badass chilli is just that. Bad. Ass.


Just can’t get enough…

I’m not even trying to pretty this one up.  It looks like sick.

Monday Munchy Malfeasance*

Dear High Street purveyor of ‘delicious’ lunchtime meals,

Hi!  Let me start off by saying, for the most part, I really like you.  I’d friggin’ marry your cheese and pickle sandwiches if there wasn’t a chance for the relationship to moulder after an unrefrigerated romance.  But there’s something we need to talk about; have a discussion, a palaver, if you will. 

Your salads are kinda gross. (Mummy Tourette always told me to lead with the good and then stick the knife in.)

I happened into one of your shops today, hungry and looking for something to satiate me.  I found myself in front of your cooler box of love.  Your friendly fluorescent lights beckoning me to choose one of the brightly blissful packages of ambrosial goodness.  It took me about 10 minutes- because honestly how can one choose between such salacious synonyms as: scrumptious, yummy, enticing and delectable?  There were so many to choose from, but I settled on the ‘Tempting 5 bean salad with spinach and grilled halloumi in a spicy tomato sauce’. It certainly was. What? I dunno.  I bought this salad based on your duplicitous description- preparing for the incredibly awesome flavour assault on my taste buds.

What I got was this-
It’s like a Dali painting.  ‘Toyed it, my heart’, obscure and abhorrently delectible!

Seriously, High Street?  I mean, seriously?  How do you only grill (your incredibly salty) halloumi on one side?  How does your tomato sauce taste less like tomatoes and more like cheesy feet?  How does your 5 bean salad actually consist of 3 beans of varying sizes?  (And by the way a lentil is not a bean, it’s a pulse.) Also, the extra helping of lime?  Would have appreciated a warning that the first bite of my supposedly mildly spiced salad would involve me having a lime induced seizure.  There was no description of lime on your label; can you be more forward with your sour intentions before I shove you in my mouth?

But your most nefarious infraction, your most poisonous predication was this-

I’ll be a-giggling while I consume your soul!

The best name I can come up with for these slimy, diseased facsimiles of red onion are…well, diseased facsimiles of red onion. (Or purple sluggy mates of FUN!)   Why, high street, did you decide to torture me?  Why did I have to spit the purple sluggy mates of FUN! out after first chomp?  Because they’re disgusting, High Street.  Just gross.  Onion does not age well in the best of circumstances.  It’s even more monstrous when you decide to use this half-cooked nastiness in your so-called fresh salads.  Half-cooked anything in a fresh salad is blasphemy, is it not? (I realize the ridiculousness of calling any refrigerated salad with an eight day outdate blasphemy, but go with me here, I’m trying to prove a point.)

So what does one do in such a situation, High Street?  Continue eating this rubbish because I’m ravenous?  Yes.  Yes, I did. Understand, I was f*cking famished, High Street.  And I ingested your abhorrent awfulness to fill my belly. 

It took a hell of a lot of Cholula and a bit of Johnny’s, but I managed to get it down. Can’t say I liked it, can’t say I didn’t. But next time High Street, keep your sickly, slimy slugs from hell to yourself.  And let me get along without your lime of doom. DOOM!

CHOLULA!
*this post contains copious amounts of absolutely amazing alliteration, use wisely! Like Cholula.

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