We Are All Screwed

Okay, that was just horrible… Francis Scott Key is must be rolling over in his grave.

So I worked late and hurried home, then into the shower after quickly pausing the DVR at the introductions. I was so excited about watching the Rays actually in the Series that I could barely get through lather, rinse, repeat. After hurriedly drying off and throwing on some shorts, I settled into the recliner to watch the game. Fast-forward through the Philly lineup (who gives a fuck, right?) and listen to the cheers for the home team, and then came Armageddon.

Whose idea was it to invite the Mickey Mouse club to sing The Star Spangled Banner anyway? Bad enough they looked like an ensemble of fluffers on their way to some gay porn shoot, they came with their own arrangement of our national anthem too. I get it, you can move your hands when you sing and it magically seems to change the pitch of your voice. What kind of namby-pamby barbershop quartet bullshit was that? That song is supposed to conjure images of naval battles, patriotism and fighter jets flying overhead. It is supposed to remind me how much I love this country and how fortunate we all are to be American citizens. I am not supposed to find myself wondering what the performers would sound like being eaten alive by a pack of jackals on the grounds of Fort McHenry. Do you think any of them even know what the word “rampart” means? No, it is not a component of a Dodge truck nor is it something all four of you douchebags could do simultaneously to Britney Spears. I wonder if they each got a copy of the lyrics with phonetical spelling so they didn’t get confused.

Can’t wait to see who they parade out for the remaining games, may be Roseanne is available for an encore crotch-grab… Gotta go, I just missed the first at-bat.

Okay, after reading the title you may assume that this is going to be some kind of rant regarding the brain-numbing garbage on the telly these days. Gotcha!!! Actually, today we will be discussing real, live feces – specifically a sample that I found comfortably perched atop my 32″ living room set the other day. Yes, Mr. Hanky’s doppelganger in my very own home!

Here is a little background on me and doo-doo. I do not like public restrooms. At all. Not even a little bit. I will not go number two in them. Ever. I will clench my ass cheeks and shuffle my feet all the way home to avoid an encounter with one of their possibly SHF (Google it if you are not up on infectious diseases) infected seats. In fact, maybe Bush should “liberate” all the Circle K and 7-Eleven potties before he is run out of the Oval Office if he really wants to find some WMD’s.

The last time I had to go in public I was on the way home from work. I had a sneaking suspicion I may shart if an immediate evacuation was not forthcoming. I stopped at Albertson’s to pick up some odds and ends, my first stop was a beeline to the restroom. After seeing the stall, I was convinced that they had filmed Saw in this very location. See above paragraph regarding ass-clenching and feet shuffling, as this is what came next – although at an increased pace since I was now convinced that Jigsaw was after me too. After taking about ten minutes to try different methods of bending over to pick up a 12-pack of Pepsi, I was on my way. As I was shuffling through the parking lot pondering the difficult transition of getting into a vehicle in my current state, I heard a sound that I had only heard previously from the south end of a horse during a parade I attended as a young lad. King of a moist SPLAT… Right there, in the parking lot, I had miraculously dropped a little gift from the bottom of my shorts. After a quick glance to be sure that I missed my leg , sock, and shoe – plus the requisite corn-check and some serious laughter (which didn’t help matters) I kept going as if nothing had happened. My only regret is that I was not around to witness the poor bastard that stepped in it.

Anyway, I digress. I have a son who seems to have inherited this trait genetically. I’m walking through the house the other day, about to light some incense and I notice something atop the television. Bam, a small brown trout out of water just staring up at me. The dog is way too old to pull this off, so I got a fresh CO2 cartridge out and went in search of the asshole cat. Then it dawned on me – this was human dookie, much like the time I shit in my aunt and uncle’s closet because I was afraid to go out of my bedroom one time on vacation when I was 8 or 9. Long story short, the boy doesn’t like the bathrooms at school and was not sure what to do with the nugget he had been keeping warm like a penguin in his butt-cheek nest once he got home. The logical solution, toss it behind the TV so you don’t have to get up from the recliner and miss any of Naruto. Except he didn’t have the arm to make it all the way. Once the biohazard element had been contained and the boy disciplined I took some time to reflect on this catastrophe.

I concluded that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and I love my turd-flinging boy with all my heart. In fact, he is one of my greatest sources of joy and pride. For those of you that have seen “Waiting”, he can also perform a flawless batwing and breast-of-chicken.