Poop Talk
Sometimes when I’m on the toilet I have some trouble pooping. Sometimes just a little nugget comes out when I’m expecting a log, and when I eventually give up, I look down and nothing’s there. Sometimes, such a time passes from the initial drop that I’m no longer sure if I pooped at all. But I know it’s behind that useless bend in the porcelain, waiting.
Sometimes when I’m not sure, I contemplate not flushing. What I stumble upon then is a Shrodinger’s cat situation. If no one observes the turd, it is both there and it isn’t. In these cases, however, I usually defer judgement to Occam’s razor and find the simplest explanation is that I’m just retarded.
Then when I’ve had a good long bout of of pseudo-constipation, I unleash Pangea upon my unsuspecting shitter and it looks like some poor misguided activists tried to save a beached whale by covering it in mud.
I find that my cleaning method has become increasingly “sophisticated,” although I’m not totally sure how effective the methods are. First I was a clumper-wiper, then I was a folder-wiper, and now I’m a folder-dabber. I would ask for input on this but I don’t think the format of this blog allows for reader comments. So just ruminate on that I guess.