The other day, a coworker and I were discussing the ravages a night of drinking can have on your body - mainly, the digestive system. I don't know exactly how it happened, but one of us broke into song; specifically, Kenny Loggins' "Footloose." Rather, we had changed the words to "Poo's Loose." I can't recall more than two or three other times I've laughed as hard - and yes, we doubled back on "Loggins" for an additional few moments of chuckles. I mean, it's such an upbeat song. Such an iconic song. And yet, "Poo's Loose - everybody's got Loose Poops." Hilarious. (One of the other top five laughs was a week before this, when we created a James Bond themed optometrists office called "Four Hour Eyes Only" - but there was a lot of context to that one. Reading it now doesn't have the same effect, but that moment? I almost threw up from laughing).
Put me on my deathbed, give me the worst disease and bring my loved ones in. Someone tells a poop or penis joke and I'm dead from laughing - especially if it's a respiratory related illness. Poop will always be funny. And you prude reading this thinking "poop isn't funny," and continue to live your life thinking that you just read the words Loose Poops in Kenny Loggins' sweet tenor, with a rockin' guitar in the background and didn't laugh? Well, you're wrong. Dead wrong. Dead like me in the previous scenario wrong.
Poop is universal. Everybody Poops, that's the book right? Heck, every THING poops. Animals poop. Insects poop. I'm pretty sure photosynthesis is from the Greek for "Plant Poop."
And with that, I present you with two poems I've written. I suppose the alternate title of this article is "For Your Consideration" as I will be submitting it to the Pulitzer committee.
Magic Hour - 15. Apr. 17.
The sun is only now starting to consider
poking its head over the horizon.
Solitary bird song dances in through
the open window.
Occasional voices converse as the
occasional car Doppler's down the road.
Unknowingly, the couple lay in bed,
partaking in duelling flatus.
Earthquake in my Anus – 11. Feb. 15.
Vibrations pulse through the ground
Glass shatters, ancient hardwood creaks with despair
A woman springs from bed: startled.
A neighbourhood dog barks at the night,
Several miles away.
Trinkets topple from shelves
Forgotten dust descends from ceiling fan, uncleaned
The telephone screams: concern.
A tree erupts as birds take flight,
A faint echo reverberates nearby.
Symphony of simple cacophony
Sirens abound, the chorus of this orchestra
The emergency broadcast system: support.
A priest clutching a rosary prepares holy water,
His bible close at hand.
Rectum? Darned near killed them.
So there you have it, folks. Literary genius at work. Please forward any requests for commencement addresses, motivational speeches or eulogies to my agent.