randnix.com

So in between them, in my crisis driven existence, I sometimes say to myself, (get ready for it), "SELF, " (you knew it was coming), " You oughtta go see what’s going on in the blogosphere, and, by that, I mean, your blog."

If, by the time that thought continues its journey across my frontal lobe, some other person hasn’t advised of another crisis involving their inability to convert kg’s into lbs properly, or some other greatly exaggerated use of the word "urgent", then I usually type in randnix.com just to see what I used to write about.

And I always feel like a shitheel® when I see someone who commented on how glad they are I’m back blogging — only the comment was put into moderation like 5 months ago and I haven’t blogged since.  I don’t even really remember when I put comments to be moderated.   Why would I moderate someone’s comments?   What was I thinking?   Or is that the default?   How can I build the systems that run the Fortune 500 and not know anything about why my blog comments are heading into moderation with no intelligent thought or action on my part?

These questions weigh heavily on my mind for about 6 seconds before I come up with another great idea (usually involving a can of great tasting-less filling, Miller Lite!  The beer that’s NEVER watered-down, so you can RAISE it up!)

How’s that for what we call in The Biz, "Product Placement"?   I expect an official spokesperson agreement in the mail any day now.

Actually, not to detract from what is unquestionably a great beer, Miller Lite, the ONLY beer bringing you a better, bolder summer where you could win a 105th Anniversary Edition Harley-Davidson Motorcycle ®, I’d like us to be serious for a moment, as I’ve recently had some revelations, or insight, or discoveries, or maybe just common sense that I never had before — I don’t know — but it’s about something, I think, a lot of us take for granted and we shouldn’t (and, no, I’m not talking about the Award Winning Taste of The Original Light Beer, Miller Lite!)  I am talking about something far more biological in nature: 

Poop.

I know what you’re thinking — we really don’t need to reduce this blog to just a bunch of shit jokes in a post.   I agree.   I have no intention of making light of the situation — or even including a single feces joke.

Although. and this isn’t so much of a joke, but it is one heckuva funny story, I did watch a movie once in which a character had been labeled a "Fecal Freak" because of something he did "on the inside" (those of you who’ve served time like me will know the meaning of that), and I decided I should reserve the Internet domain "fecalfreak.com" only to find it already reserved and then we called and found out who reserved it and then called him to try to buy it, only we got his secretary instead, who, until that day, had no idea her boss owned a domain called fecalfreak.com –  it’s a really hilarious story…  but, as I said, I’d like us to be serious for a moment.

The reason for my newfound respect about the subject of. . . well, poop… is that I recently met a man who definitely did NOT take the subject for granted in the same way as, I believe, the rest of us do.  He is 3 years old and he was at my house when he needed to use the bathroom and someone tasked me with the job of taking him there.

May I just say, you already know more about the outcome of this particular task than I did.   I figure:  point the kid to a toilet (and kudos to him for the potty training) and I’ll skip out until it’s time to lift him up to wash the hands.   (I’ve been in enough public restrooms with partial family units to know that’s the big persons job.)  But then, suddenly, I’m holding his little hand and we’re in the situation room and I look at the bowl and realize that it needs configuration for the specific job at hand and I realize that I have no information about what the job at hand is, although I did make some earlier assumptions that it was pretty simple… assumptions I was desperately hoping WERE true, but which I now knew I had reason to question.  So, not knowing this particular little mans family’s use of vernacular in this situation I sort of grab the seat of the throne and say, stupidly, "Uh, what kind do you have to do?"

He really seemed to consider it for a minute.   Then, cruelly, I thought, he said, "I have to poop."  The words echoed through the mostly porcelain room as I tried to grab something from my past that might promise some sort of clue as to how to get through what was about to happen.

There was nothing.  

I looked down to then see my guest fumbling with his shoe… the left one, and although I knew things were about to go downhill fast, I really didn’t see the significance of the shoe fumbling, so, as one who believes there are no dumb questions, I asked, stupidly, "uh… what… are you doing… um, with your shoe?"

"I have to take off my pants so don’t get poop on them," he replied flatly.

I have to say, I had to consider that point for a moment.  I mean, as to a matter of safe precaution, the logic can’t be argued.   On the other hand, it’s also a little rare for this exercise to go wrong in that area, in my experience.   Then again, we aren’t dealing with my experience, because, hell, I’m a seasoned pooper (seriously).  Ultimately, I decide — "Go With It" and then I lean down to help the kid with the left shoe because he didn’t seem to be having much luck with the quadruple knotted, cross-stitched, glued-down and welded together knot someone had tied for him, and I didn’t know what kind of time frame we were working against.

What happened next, and I don’t feel that comfortable admitting this, scared the hell out of me.   We no sooner had the shoe off, than the left pant leg dropped; he expertly scooped that away leaving just the one pantleg (the right one) and the one shoe still on (the right one).  I no longer had a job to do here, it seemed, as he was racing on to this next bit oblivious to my presence (although another job, I could feel dawning in the back of my mind, a very bad one, could soon wind up in my court depending on his amount of training and my amount of bad luck.)  Then he began to (and these are the only words I can think of to describe it) reverse mount the porcelain thrown.  I mean, here he was, safely in the sanctuary of poop, naked from the leftside down, in perfect firing range, and he was mounting in, what I believed to be, the wrong direction.

Presumably being in a position of leadership here, I, of course, froze wide eyed and found myself with absolutely nothing to say.  Well, maybe I did say something, honestly, I don’t remember.  I may have asked him why.   I may have gasped.   I don’t think I fell down; I don’t really know, but I would swear, as impossible as it sounds, the next thing I hear, as he’s reverse-climbing Mount Evershit is, "I don’t know why you guys always want to do it backwards…"

At which point, the dawning realization of my next task, the bad one, had taken firm hold on the left side of my brain, and the right was still struggling with the idea that this little man thought I was the weird one for not adopting the reverse-mount approach or even questioning it and, when that happens, I know, from my visits to the therapist, it’s because your mask of sanity has not just slipped off, but is so far downstream that you won’t see it again unless it’s for sale used at a bait and tackle shop you happen onto — so I ran.   I ran like the wind.   I found the first woman I could find and pointed her to, what I now call,  The Site and mumbled, "I think he may need help…" and then I just gave up on the sanity bit and shrunk hopelessly into the couch as I realized that maybe he’s not the one doing the reverse-mount.

Maybe it’s me.