How To: The Phone And Poop

I was recently on the phone with Kung Fu Sally, babbling away when she interjected.

"Can I call you right back?"

"Sure. Everything OK?"

"Yeah, I gotta use the potty."

I couldn't understand this. I didn't mind if she used the facilities while I was on the phone. Everybody poops, right? I do. I told her she should just do it, but she was too self-conscious. I told her if she hadn't said anything and just went ahead I never would have noticed.



"Have you ever used the can while we were talking?" She asked.

Of course I had. I had used it twice while we were in the midst of our present conversation. She was nonplussed. I didn't understand this.


A little history:

Years ago I had a roommate who shall remain nameless until my legal department clears the permits. For now, let's call him Adam.

Adam had no problem with many things about the phone. He was the only person I've ever met who would hit the bong and THEN call his parents. Astounding. And he had no problem talking away while dropping a deuce.


The One Flaw in his plan was the flushing part. He couldn't do it. His plan was to poop on the phone*, walk away, then return to dispose of the evidence after the call had wrapped up. The swirling waters were just too loud and would expose his guilt and shame to the person on the other end of the line, or so the logic went.

The problem then, was perhaps the chemically-induced short-term memory loss: He would stand up, buckle up, drop the seat and walk away, only to forget to come back later finish the deed.

And here's where I came in. Or rather, later, I would get home and go into the head to make a tinkle only to raise the seat and be clubbed over the head with Adam's Log.

Gross!

And, guys, it happened a LOT. The sound of me yelling, in guttural tones would become commonplace. "AAddAAAAMMMMM!!!!" He would come running, red-faced and apologizing. I'd make him flush, trying to shame him into remembering, but it was for naught. He would still leave a Bowl Baby. Eventually, a part of me began to wonder if he was doing it on purpose. I would greet a lowered seat with suspicion. I know there's a Brown Trap waiting in there.

As the adage goes, if you can't beat em, join em. I set about to improve the method.



I eventually invented THE PHONE AND POOP.

The Phone and Poop is pretty easy, actually. You just gotta relax. But you gotta sell it, dammit! You gotta be all DeNiro on the can. You have to believe you can pull it off.



Any incriminating noises will be greeted by you with ignorance. When your friend on the other end of the line asks, "What was that?", you act like you didn't hear a damn thing. You are sitting stock-still in an empty room. You don't have biology. What is indoor plumbing? Sell it. Method acting. What was that sound? You're putting a pot back in the cabinet. That's what you are doing. You are simply folding an old newspaper. You dropped a phone book on the carpet.



Whatever you do, do not admit to the deed! Admitting your actions will only cast you in a suspicious light to the other person FOREVER. And word gets around. If you own up, you could soon be known all over town as a phone pooper. It's okay to be a phone pooper, so long as you are stealthy about it. Think about it like being a secret-agent. What spy is going to walk around blabbing that he's a spy? See? Mum is the word.

Now that we have some of the basics down, let's get into The Phone and Poop 201: The logistics. Tidying up is pretty easy. You only need one hand to take care of that, so we'll skip ahead to the next part: The Hoisting the Trousers. (The Phone and Poop is yet another example of how pants are simply a hindrance and a nuisance.) Hoisting the Trousers takes some coordination. You first have to master the hold-the-phone-to-your-head-with-your-shoulder maneuver, also known as Taco Neck.

And now to make your escape. This is the most difficult part. First, the prep work: Close the lid, open the door, and while standing as far away as possible, hit the lever and BOOGIE out the door. Flee the scene.

But there's more to it than that. First, cover the microphone of your phone. On some of today's cell phones, this can be done with a single finger, if you can find the thing at all.

Secondly, and this is the essence of the Phone and Poop: You gotta get the person on the other end of the phone to be doing most of the talking. This might require some time-management on your part. You have to be thinking ahead and plant this seed in advance. The best topics for this are hot-button issues. Is the person a democrat? Tell them Glenn Beck raises some valid points that are not ridiculous at all. Republican? Ask them "So, that Obama, kicking ass, right?" If it is a woman with a small child, ask her what being pregnant was like. Pet owner? Ask them what the cutest thing their dog/cat/ferret/etc ever did. Or, go for shock value. If your partner in conversation is Catholic, offer to tell them how much money you just donated to Planned Parenthood. Tell your girlfriend you'd like a sandwich with your blow job. Tell your boyfriend that a large penis is not that important to you. This is your chance to get creative! Make the Phone and Poop your own. Make it work for YOU.

But be warned! You may get more than you bargained for with this last bit. Don't raise some issue that is going to give you more trouble than it is worth. Make sure you are able to extricate yourself from the conversation with grace and tact. Don't make enemies. Use the Phone and Poop for good, not evil.

You're welcome, America.



*meaning, poop while on the phone, not actually poop ON the phone.

All My Friends

Below is a metaphor for all my amazing friends. That's me upside down.

Praise And Adulation

After a rather difficult week I am heartened to report that some very generous people have come forward and shown me that there is in fact some good left in this world, and they have convinced me not to turn into the full-fledged curmudgeon that I was well on the way to becoming.

Herein, I would like to say a few words about the folks who have helped to restore my faith in the goodness of humanity. In chronological order:

John Stephens. I met John many years ago when we were both coffee jockeys at a cafe on Newbury street. What I didn't know at first was that he was playing in what would become, in my mind, one of the most amazing live bands to play in Boston. The Vehicle Birth was rather short lived, and could put on some of the most absolutely incendiary performances I have ever witnessed, driven often by the unbelievable bass played by John. I remember once at a show, a mutual friend Tyler nudging me, and, motioning to John, during the opening of the song "Sideshow," shaking his head and saying, "The solid brass Balls on this guy..." He was right. John now lives in Brooklyn with his lovely wife. Thanks, John for your generosity. You really helped to cheer me up when I was pretty far down.

Lisa and Dave Simons. I think I met these guys at about the same time I knew John. I met Lisa through another friend at the cafe, and Dave through Lisa. They were installing a mural at what was once the greatest rock club in Boston, The Rat. Invariably, when we get together now, at some point we will lament how old we are and how much we miss that place. I once dogsat Shelby, Lisa's tiny dog for a weekend, and that dog destroyed everything in its vicinity, howling with rage at the abandonment. For some reason, I didn't tell Lisa about it for years. I still don't understand that. Lisa is now the Creative Director at Health Talker, a word of mouth ad agency. Thanks so much you guys for your kindness.

Becky Birnholz. Becky is easily the sweetest, most giving person I have ever had the pleasure to meet. (Sorry, rest of yous!) Not only are we friends, we're also neighbors, so I often have the serendipitous occasion to run into her randomly around the 'hood. She's an apparel design grad from RISD, and I'm looking forward to some roof deck movie nights at her gorgeous apartment this summer. Thanks Becky! You know how to make a fella feel special.

Jane Eisensmith. I met Jane in college at Haystack Mountain School of Crafts. A friend of a friend, I was told "You should meet my friend Jane, you would really like her," which was absolutely true. Jane is one of the good ones, people, and I'm grateful for her friendship. She recently became a mom. I know all babies are at least kinda cute, but James is ridiculously cute. The kid is a cute factory. If cuteness was a river, this kid would be flooding his banks.

See? Thanks Jane! You're the best. And Dan's recent story about the dude eating corn on the cob in line at the Dunkin Donuts has had me laughing for three days now. Pass that along for me, k?

Melody Norton. I've known Melody longer than anyone on this list. We met in sixth grade, and have been good friends since. Growing up together, we had ample opportunity to get into a lot of trouble together. A lot. But it was all of the harmless adolescent type, and we both made it through unscathed. We used to play music together in high school, and she won't hesitate to pull out the video of our performance at a talent show, in which I've got ridiculously long hair and an equally awful outfit. She lives near a zoo in York Beach Maine where she says she can hear the lions in the morning with her husband Rusty, their awesome golden retriever, and one of the biggest horses I have ever seen in my life. Thanks Mel! We've been friends this long for a reason.

Jeremy Majewski. Jeremy and I went to college together but only became friends much later through mutual friends. A renaissance man, Jer continually amazes me with the amount of things he is good at. Baking? Gardening? Cycling? Playing the banjo? Yep. Jer does it. Jeremy also is the anchor to our bowling team The Thunderballs. He's also a very talented illustrator. Check out his website. Thanks Jeremy!

I'm still taking donations here, so if you're feeling generous, have a look. You can also be enshrined in the pantheon of the kind friends of mine here at ThatDude. Thanks again everybody, and be good to one another.

Hat In Hand

I suppose I should be grateful. I've lived in the city almost 18 years, and this is the first time something truly bad has happened to me. Every time I would hear about a friend or even a stranger getting mugged, robbed, car broken into, I'd think about my good luck. But the pessimist in me would be thinking that my time was coming.

Well, that time has arrived.

My apartment was broken into on Friday while I was at work being a productive member of society. He/they stole my laptop, my digital camera, and some prescription drugs that I was really looking forward to using in a recreational manner this weekend. He/they destroyed some stuff that has huge emotional weight with me and zero financial meaning to anyone.

I'm sad. Hurt. Bewildered and paranoid. Last night involved a weird kind of nesting involving throwing things away that is a little disconcerting and confusing to me.

There are some humorous bits, like me buying new locks and promptly locking myself out. That's a story for another time though. It's easy for me to write about something that I find amusing, in which I usually do something stupid. The painful stuff is very, very difficult to write about.

I don't earn a ton of money, so replacing the stuff is going to be a burden. My friend Amy suggested Chipin.com to me, and that's the ultimate push of this post.




Didn't think there would be a sales pitch, didja?

Begging doesn't come easy to me, and this is all a little embarrassing to me. But if you find yourself with a dollar or two to spare, I hope you'd consider sliding them my way. I will replace my laptop, and I'll even write a post in which I praise your virtue and general awesomeness if you would like.

I'll fill in details about the incident when I'm able to sort them out properly in my head. In the meantime, thanks for reading, and take care of one another.

The Future Is Now!

Ladies and gentlemen, the future is now here at ThatDude! I have in my hands a shiny new toy that has held my undivided attention since Friday afternoon. My new smartphone will allow for mobile posts and up-to-the-minute news of the pointless minutiae of my existence. Look forward to many poorly spelled additions in the coming days!

Smooth Move, Polyester Slacks

Spring of 1982. The big All-School Rollerskating Day was coming up. Once a year my elementary school would rent out the local skating rink and have a Saturday afternoon of wholesome family fun wheeling round, listening to the pop hits of the day. Of course I was going. This was Roller Skating we were talking about. Like sticker albums and Michael Jackson, roller skating was a BIG DEAL.


I was in Ms. Greglein's class, and I had had my eyes on Nicolette for some time. Unlike most kids, who, when they get a crush, punch and kick the objects of their affections, I knew Nicolette was special. She didn't deserve such treatment. She was classy.

I was going to ask her to go roller skating with me. We'd hold hands during the couple's skate, the light from the disco ball bathing us in magic and transporting us to Loveland.

It was to be the first time I asked a girl out.

It's difficult to plan a date when you depend on your parents for rides around. And money. But I was going to find a way to make it work. Nicolette's destiny was to fall in love with and get married to me. We would live in a tree with our 26 dogs and eat cinnamon toast everyday for breakfast. I had it all planned out. I even had names for the dogs.

But first, I had to get her to see how bold I was, how suave and determined I was. Just wait until she got to see my mad skating skills.


Two days before the big event, I spotted Nicolette walking with Francesca to their bus after school. I hurried to catch up, then, acting nonchalant was all, "Hey Nicolette, what's happening?"

She and Francesca said hi. We walked along.

"So... Really looking forward to roller skating this weekend. I was thinking, do you want to go with me to the rink?" I asked.

"Well, I'm going, so I guess I'll see you there?" She replied. I didn't let this deter me. Just play it cool, I thought to myself, you're doing fine. It's probably just a logistics thing. I'll just wow her with my ability to skate backwards, and she'll fall head over heels. Figuratively, hopefully. A concussion probably wouldn't help my cause.

"So, that's cool, I'll see you there," I said as we walked along. Thinking: SWISH! "It's gonna be great."

Then as I turned to go,

CLANG!!!

I walked face-first into a metal pole.

I bounced back and fell on my ass in the lot. I don't even remember if Nicolette or Francesca reacted at all. Perhaps they simply continued on to the buses. As a gangly teenager, or even an adult who could laugh at this stuff, this may have been a huge setback from which recovery might not be possible. I imagine if this scene were to play out now, in the midst of my adultivity, I would hope for the CERN Large Hadron Collider to successfully open a black hole into which I would promptly step, preferring to be ripped asunder by the forces of nature than to ever be seen by the girl in this life again.

In the end it didn't matter. What the hell does a seven year old need with romance? And truth be told, I could never skate backwards. Maybe that pole was saving me from further embarrassment and a possible coma when I split my skull open trying to impress the girl. I still don't understand how all those dogs were to get up into the tree, so perhaps it's all for the best.

In Which Money Falls From My Ass

Bleary eyed and still half asleep, I'm standing in the shower enjoying the warm water falling on my head. Wakefulness is slow in coming this morning.

I'm pushing what's left of my hair back when I hear a metallic clink on the floor of the tub. Brow furrowed, I look down to see Roosevelt's wet silhouette looking sidelong at me.

That's weird, I think, as I nudge him to the back of the tub with my toe. What's a dime doing in the shower? I get on with my day and give the matter no more thought.

Two days later, it happens again. Clink! Lincoln this time. What's happening here? I look down and around. Another clink! Did a nickel just fall out of my ass? Nearly twisting my neck off, I strain round and see more money. Stuck to my ass.

It took a couple days and a few more lost coins, but I soon solved the mystery. I was coming home from work every afternoon exhausted. I would kick off my shoes as soon as I walked in and lay down for a much needed nap. In the process of turning over, all my change would fall out of my pockets and lay in wait for me.

At night, when I was going to bed for real, I would sleep in my boxer shorts, climbing into my cash-rich mattress. In the process of sleeping on top of the coins, they would adhere to my upper legs, back and ass, and reveal themselves in the shower in the morning.

Not long after this revelation I took to taking my naps on the living room couch instead. Poor Roosevelt...