The stools were in his Father, and the turds were in his Dad . To me, this implies the relationship between existential (ha!) and literal constipation. I have been mumbling this phrase to myself for over a month now, ever since my boss told me This Thing That Humbled Me. Does everyone realize that the term “stools” is the clinical/academic/philosophical, whatever, term for “strands of poop” ? Okay, then, I wonder if that is the real reason why the erudite and occult-minded call the toilet a “stool”? Hmmmmm.
Well, awhile back my boss and I were outside the porn store, smoking a cigarette and talking. I was bitching about how I’m sick of having to put new rolls of toilet paper in the customer bathroom two times a day because the masturbatorsare always going in there, stealing a half roll of toilet paper at a time to take into the video arcade to wipe their cum off with after they jack off. It was just friendly, casual complaining; no big deal; my boss and I complain to each other all of the time. But for some reason, after I said this my boss’ eyes became fiery; his face became red as he said, “You know, you really shouldn’t be bitching. Did I ever tell you that I used to have to wipe my dad’s ASS for him when he had colon cancer?”
I was floored, in shock, because my boss’ eyes were getting teary now, and I could tell he really was pissed at me, which is rare. I got sort of flustered and said, “Huh?”. Then my boss went on to say, “Yeah, there were even a couple times when he was so constipated that I had to scoop the shit out of him with a fucking spoon! So fuck you and your stupid customer bathroom toilet paper problems!!!!!” I was actually getting pretty mad, myself, hurt that my boss would come out of left field with such “off the wall” stuff and start berating me for nothing. But hey, I like my boss, and just realized that for some reason I’d “struck a chord” and brought back a painful memory for him. I punched out as soon as I could after that, went home and started pondering it all.
The stools were in his Father, and the turds were in his Dad.
I’d known that there was some point, just before I’d met my boss, where his dad was real sick. He had colon cancer (though he was only in his fifties), and there was a period where it looked so bleak that they just sent him home to die. I did some research that night concerning “Constipation in Cancer” and started getting really creeped out, imagining the whole scenario, what it must have been like for my boss to scoop out all those hard, bloody turds from his own fucking DAD, figuring he was probably going to die anyway, but just wanting to release him from some degree of pain before he went. And then I figured it had something to do with LOVE for your family, or just another human being in general, which I admittedly know ABSOLUTELY NOTHING ABOUT, not really; I’m a fucking masturbat; a wanker. And I started feeling really humbled, you know, because there is NO WAY I could ever see myself doing that for MY Dad. Waaaaay too fucking weird, dude! Hee! I doubt my Dad would ever let me near his asshole, anyway! He’d have one of my goody two-shoes sisters do it!
But that shit is intense! Hee! That shit is fucking INTENSE, I think, and really fucking beautiful. As I thought about it more and more that night, it came a time when I felt that pressure in my abdomen, you know, whatever; I had to take a SHIT , you see, and when I sat upon the toilet . . . . nothing would fucking come out! Hee! A sharp pain of fear raced through me and I was, like, “Uh-oh, am I going to have to call my Dad to get this stuff out? Hee! Is that how it is? Must it go full circle?” And I saw my boss’ dad, lying there in bed as he humbly said, “It’s rotting inside me, son. I need you to help me get it out”. All that shit sitting inside my boss’ dad, rotting as the poisons and toxins engulfed his rectum; his intestines; as the cancer consumed his innards and my boss, being human, feeling awkward and sad, possibly crying as he turned his dad over on the bed, on his belly. Staring at that wrinkled ass, that old, pale sickly ass with an ominous butt crack in the middle which concealed the cancer, the death and all the hard, blood-caked turds that my boss scooped out with a fucking SPOON, possibly using some lube from the porn-store. I’m sure his dad had his best “poop face” on, or whatever, as he groaned while my boss’ spoon did its research, sloooowly pulling out hard chunks of fiber-less, cancerous, blood-covered feces that may very well have looked like “Fool’s Gold” for the schizophrenic, glistening in their gold, brown and shit black hues as both men cried, humiliated, UTTERLY humiliated . . . . but GLOrIFIeD, man! Ha! Such a glorious, sublime thing to have to endure!!!! Hee!
I’m still existentially constipated, but I managed to get my own stools out the next morning, thank you.
The stools were in his Father, the turds were in his Dad
