Warning: This post is more asinine than most, which is saying quite a lot, so read on at your own risk.
The things I enjoy most in life: Sex, masturbation, food, drink, masturbation and defecation. I don't get much of first; I get plenty of the rest but can rarely take time to truly savor the last. You see I thoroughly enjoy a good shit. The clearing of the bowels is often the highlight of my day. However; I am usually not able to sit back and live, or grunt, in the moment. If only I could spend all day on the porcelain throne but that is but a fleeting dream. Even I, the most slothful of creatures, am forced into daily activity, be it eating a whooper, looking up Jenna Jameson movies or simply watching television. Whatever the cause, my poopie time is most definitely finite. I can live with that because it gives me something to look forward to and truly what is life without hope? Some hope for peace, others for prosperity, I hope for a good shit. Therefore I am able to live with the 3-5 times a day I release the brown colored happiness. All in all an hour a day on the seat is nothing to sneeze or, hold your nose, at.
My problem and great concern is that I am unable, no matter how hard I try, to remember my glorious triumphant, each dump blends into another with little to distinguish one from another except for the occasional glimpse of red or green color.
I find it strange that I am unable to remember my most memorable shits. I can't even remember the first time I went potty, but that is excusable since I was but an infant at the time. Yet, even when I was cognizant of my surroundings and when my childhood memories begin I, Bob, can't remember ever taking a shit. Of course I must have taken many but it is odd that none stand out from those days of yesteryear, nor do any bouts of poop come to mind when thinking of last week. I know that the act is extremely pleasurable but it is fleeting feeling, one that last only mere minutes and leaves longing for hours on end.
I remember clearly the first time I played with Lil Bubba, I was thinking of my fourth grade teacher at the time as she was handcuffed to the bed inviting me to ravage her Olive Oyl like body. It still brings a smile to my face fifteen years later. I still recall that lonely summer day my junior year when I gently caressed my manhood some ten times in a twenty-four hour period. And, finally I can remember a handful of times when my self-love eclipsed all belief, managing to make my sexual encounters look frivolous by comparison.
I remember fondly when I lost my virginity. The day when my flower was plucked, I know the hour, the day, the month and the year. It was a wondrous five minutes of extreme ecstasy & unbelievable pleasure, at least for me; she just kept asking if it was over yet. Of course terrorists attacked us a couple days later on September 11th, 2001 making it much easier for me to remember. And, several of my collegiate friends pointed out that it was in fact my fault that the terrorists attacked because the loss of my virginity harkened the end of times. Having ones first sexual encountered described as a harbinger of the apocalypse does tend to make it stand out. I digress but perhaps in my self-effacing memories the truth can be found. I have nothing to relate my shit to. There is no face, double digit number, or worldwide terrorist attack to give my defecation perspective.
In fact the only poop-related memory I have has to do with a wet fart gone awry in my hand and how I wiped it off on a washrag, which I promptly placed atop the dirty clothes bind. Thankfully my mother found it soon afterward and showed every one of my friends who visited over the next week.
I need to start a turd log. It would give a tangible record of my most undervalued of acts and provide a historical account for those shit seekers whom come after me. I could describe the texture, smell, color and, on occasion, the taste of my excretions. Then again, maybe not; this site is testimony enough to how fucked up I am, there is little need for any more evidence.
Go to Hell