The Time I Got Stool Softener For My Ear Because My Earwax Was Stabbing My Brain, And Other Poop StoriesS

Time for your weekly edition of the Deadspin Funbag. Drew Magary's on vacation. Filling in for him is Jezebel's wonderful Lindy West.

Hello, little lambs. It's me, some lady! You might remember me from yelling about vagina over at Jezebel, or from that time one year ago when Drew went on vacation and I wrote a weird Funbag about banana phones and jism. Can you believe it's been an entire year? ME NEITHER. But now Drew has up and left you again—doubtless wearing a coconut bra and recapturing his erotic groove with the help of Taye Diggs, Phyllis Diller, and the Harlem Globetrotters as we speak. Classic Drew! Anyway, you're stuck with me.

Let's jump right into it. Poop. Now, I like a good poop joke. I enjoy a poop mishap, a poop triumph, and a poop transplant (especially a poop transplant, obv). I'm of the mind that our physical bodies are mere hosts—protective exosuits, if you will—for our precious buttholes to ride around in, Krang-style. I'm with it. I'm good. Poop. Great. Krang suit. I love your work. But YOU GUYS. Oh my god, you guys love poop so much you make me look like the Ken Griffey Jr. of infant babies of not giving a shit about poop. (I put that sports metaphor in so that you'll accept me. Was it a "home run"? … This is working, right?) I got so many poop letters this week that I think I can make this a 100 percent all-poop Funbag. I got so many poop letters this week that I don't think I even like poop anymore. But here we go.

Donald P.:

Recently I was at a Cracker Barrel having a delightful post-pancake and coffee poo. While taking my time on the can, I started thinking about how many people had gone two-sers there just that morning. Which restaurant do you think is most pooped in? This can either be sheer volume, percentage of customers who come through the place on a given day, or percentage of people using the restroom. Your call.

It is my call, Donald P. Thank you for recognizing my authority. However, that's a dumb question. The answer to "which restaurant is the most pooped in?" is obviously Grampa Woody's Best Li'l Cocaine & Fish 'n' Chips Shack outside of Charlottesville, Va. Here are some good questions that I thought of, though:

1. Is "poo" funnier than "poop"? I kind of think it is. There's something onomatopoeic about "poo"—like the sagging, tapered ends of an orphaned turd. Also, one time my old roommate said to me, "I just beat all of Super Mario Brothers 1 during one poo!!! And it wasn't even an especially long poo either." (He had an NES set up in the bathroom, duh.) Now any time anyone says "poo" instead of "poop" I think about how good my roommate was at Super Mario 1.

2. Is fish 'n' chips the most poo-inducing food on earth? It's less like food and more like ammunition for your butt cannon. The Fish 'N' Chips Council should market it as a stool softener. Speaking of stool softeners (which I will do 900,000 times during this Funbag), one time this weird thing happened to my ear where some earwax got way down inside my ear canal and turned to stone and then the stone turned into a deadly knife stabbing me in the brain. I went to the otolaryngologist, Dr. Wang, who told me that I had "slender ear canals," which I found flattering, and then he prescribed some stool softener that I was supposed to pour into my ear. I went to the pharmacy to fill my prescription, where I participated in the following conversation:

Me: "Hello, I need to fill this prescription. For stool softener. IT'S FOR MY EAR, IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING."

11-year-old Pharmacist: "Sorry, I can't fill this prescription. The dosage is wrong. It says to pour 100 ml of stool softener into your ear, but the human ear only holds 10 ml. Ethically I cannot give this to you."

Me: "Yes, but can I just have it please? I'm sure Dr. Wang just wrote down the wrong number by mistake."

11-year-old Pharmacist: "Listen, I don't make the rules. What if something went wrong because of the incorrect dosage? I would be liable."

Me: "What do you mean 'go wrong'? My ear only holds the amount of stool softener that it holds. You mean my ear might overflow because I poured too much stool softener in it? And then I'd get some stool softener on my face? How is that a liability?"

11-year-old Pharmacist: "I don't know specifically, ma'am, but it's the law. I took an OATH."

Me (crying): "GIVE ME THE FUCKING STOOL SOFTENER SO THAT I CAN POUR IT INTO MY EAR. A KNIFE MADE OF EARWAX IS STABBING ME IN MY BRAIN."

11-year-old Pharmacist: "Fine."

It was exactly like that only 47 times longer. I still have that bottle of stool softener in my first-aid kit if anyone needs some.

Next!

Brian:

Is there anything worse than having the beer shits at work? A buddy of mine who used to live next door (now rents it to another mutual friend) stopped by on a Tuesday night. As soon as I hear the knock on the door and see it's him, I immediately know a 12 pack of Corona will be entering my bloodstream that night. I had about 4 hours of sleep before having to go to work Wednesday. At 813am I know it's going to be a looong day and there's no way of holding this off until getting home at 5. I proceed to the men's room and exit 20 minutes later after completely annihilating the wall paint, tile flooring and commode. Of course there's only that shit 1/2 ply toilet paper to use.

WTF are the "beer shits"? Is that a thing? Honestly I have no idea what you're talking about. But I'm with you on the garbage toilet paper. One-ply is for serial killers. Charmin Ultra Soft 4 life.

Troy:

After numerous bathroom stall repaintings my employer has realized that we are not going to stop writing on the walls and put up giant notpads for us to write on while we take care of our business. On one hand it makes it exciting because you know there is always something to read in every stall. I sometimes fake poop just so I can see if anyone answered my comments. On the other hand, it doesnt have the same effect as writing on the ACTUAL wall. What is that makes writing random hate on a bathroom wall so great?

You know what I'm going to write on the bathroom wall the next time I'm using a bathroom with walls worth writing on? I'm going to write "GET OFF ME, JEFF GORDON." I am so sick of the tabloids trying to convince me that "Jeff Gordon" counts as a celebrity. "Oh, look! Eight-page spread about Jeff Gordon's new baybay!" "Oh, look! Jeff Gordon ate a hoagie—he's Just Like Us!" Yes, he is just like us, if by "us" you mean "totally normal boring people I don't care about." I mean, what is a "Jeff Gordon," even??? He drives a car better than me? That is such a niche category of celebrity it makes me die of asleepness. Seriously if I hear one more thing about Jeff Gordon I'm Rip Van Winkling the shit out of the rest of this Funbag.

HALFTIME:

OH OOPS ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ. Is that the worst commercial ever made in the history of pepperoni? Seriously. Also, obviously the only person on earth worse than Jeff Gordon is John "Papa John" John-Johns. Does anyone else get a rageaholic Marv Albert vibe from that dude? Is it libelous to say that I definitely don't think that one of these days we're going to find out he got arrested for attempting to sodomize a prostitute with a garlic knot? What I'm saying is that I don't think that. I don't. I definitely don't think that Papa John is a creepy red orc-person with a weird sexual thing about pizza. Please don't sue.

Anonymous:

Which of the 4 major sports leagues do you think has the most virgins playing in it? I have spent countless hours trying to come up with an answer. [Fart noise.]

By the "4 major sports leagues" I assume you mean The Little Lord Fauntleroy Federation of Blokes Who Are Just Chuffed About Croquet, The National Quidditch Society, the American Dogs Playing Poker League, and the North and South USA Organization of Civil War Reenactments.

Quidditch has the most virgins; those poker dogs fuck like crazy.

(Behind the scenes: I added the fart noise to keep Anonymous's question compliant with our poop theme.)

Peter:

What's your stance on tipping bathroom attendants? I was recently at some shows at Terminal 5 (in NYC) and they always have a guy standing there in the bathroom trying to open the stall door for you, turn on the sink faucet, give you soap, and finally hand you a paper towel - all things I'm capable of and prefer to do myself. But then I feel guilty and try to tip whatever change I have on me (but not a full dollar, come on).

Do I think you should tip the guy whose job it is to hang out all night in a tiled chamber that's humid with your poop fumes? Do I think that guy deserves a dollar? Do I think you're being exploited? Are these real questions?

Evan:

Great moments in Poop history:

In the summer of 2011, I experienced a near death pooping trauma coupled with the risk of my girlfriend find out I poop, a secret I've hid for an eternity. I had recently consumed over the last 24 hours a lethal amount of Korean BBQ, including kim chi(fermented cabbage), as well as pickled Korean brussel sprout leaves(delicious), a pound of diakon, a pound of kalbi, as well as several other delectable Korean food items. On top of that festering mess of ethnic food I added one large Frostie, several PBRS, and a banana. This feast took place on Friday night which is my cheat day from my otherwise good diet.

On Saturday morning, after a night of achy gassy cuddling and attempts at sex, I break my fast with coffee, a protein shake, and a bowl of blackberries in coconut milk. My girlfriend and I had plans to head north to her lake house in upstate New York, so about a 2 hour drive from my house. At this point, my intestinal distress had begun, and my stomach had started sending flares to my brain to cease and desist any more food consumption, and eliminate the current contents of my bowels. I of course did not heed those warning, and stopped for a green tea at the Starbucks on the way.

I forgot to mention something, which is a key factor in the story, and helped me solidify my alibi. I had a recent ear infection and had started taking antibiotics. I had them with me, but had not taken any that day. My girlfriend knew I had them, and also knew they made me nauseous.

So we are driving, and I am growing increasingly uncomfortable. My stomach is bloated and distended like that of a third world child from a 5 cents a day commercial. I also imagine flies were buzzing around the fetid stench seeping from my swollen engorged bowels. I was squirming uncomfortably in my seat, and my girlfriend sensed something was amiss. My stomach was cramping horribly, and I had broken out into a cold sweat. My shirt was slowly becoming drenched, my eyes were bloodshot with pain, and my teeth gritted with every bump in the road.

I knew I would not survive this journey. I hated pooping in the same general vicinity or geographic location as any girl. A hang up from my anal stage in adolescence perhaps. Regardless, now the fate of my world hung in the balance. If I didn't evacuate my colon in the next 15 minutes, I would die. I had convinced myself of this. My demise was near.

"Babe," I said. "We need to stop soon. My antibiotics are making me sick. I have to throw up." She sensed the urgency in my voice, and hopefully did not suspect I was lying. We were on the New York Thruway, and North of Jersey there isn't many rest stops unless you pull of the highway. She took the first available exit, which led to a Starbucks in a shopping center. She pulled up, and I sprinted from the vehicle. All 230 pounds of swollen bloated me moved with the speed of a panther in the Starbucks. At last! My salvation! I ran to the bathroom and turned the knob. Locked!

In my head I was praying to the Gods..."Please help me, don't let me shit myself. Hurry, hurry, HURRY!" Finally the door opened and disgusting looking obese man waddled out. I darted in, and to my dismay found a toilet seat covered in urine and wadded up toilet paper. Motherfucker! I frantically cleaned the seat as quickly as I could with one had, while my other hand untied the Gorgon knot that was my belt and pants. "Quickly now," I thought, "faster, faster." Finally, my pants were down, the seat was clean, and my cheeks were hovering over the bowl. In one sudden catastrophic orgasmic movement I expelled several pounds of half digested Korean food into the bowl. As if the plug on a great dam had been removed and millions of gallons of water had instantaneously been shifted from one spot to another. My body rapidly depressurized as the waste exited me. In mere seconds I felt euphoria where before I had only felt pain and misery. It was like nothing was wrong, or had ever happened. I wiped, I flushed, I rinsed my face and washed my hands. I was in the bathroom for no more then five minutes and I left. I told my girlfriend I had thrown up and felt better, and we departed, her blissfully unaware of my own self-loathing at my bowels, and me happy to preserve the secret of my near death shit experience.

OH MY GOD, EVAN. I appreciate your dedication and flair here, but I'm worried about you. I feel like you don't understand anything about food, pooping, girlfriends, antibiotics, or prayer.

On food: WHY DID YOU EAT SO MUCH FOOD? Do you know how "food" works? What you do is you see the food and then you eat a human amount of it. A pound of dumb radish is never necessary, unless you are literally a rhino training for the Ironrhino Triathlon. Also, I get the frostie, because frosties are delicious, but throwing in that banana at the end is just weird.

On pooping: Instead of waiting one million years to poop until your distended bowels render you impotent, why not say, "Excuse me, my love," and go dump your Korean radish baby where it belongs? The toilet is its home! It wants to be there! Here's the thing about bathrooms, bro: Everyone knows what they're for, because everyone has one in his or her house, because everyone on earth is fucking shitting all of the time. Even your girlfriend. Even Angela Lansbury. Angela Lansbury is probably shitting right now. Think about this: Before poop comes out of you and becomes poop, it's inside of you—just being poop. That means that when you were rolling around on top of your girlfriend, "attempting sex," there was only a thin layer of skin and viscera between her and a GIANT SACK OF BOILING SHIT. Now, what do you think she'd be more offended by: the idea that you're turned on by smothering her beneath a human shit-mattress, or the idea that you politely excused yourself and went to use your toilet for its expressly intended purpose? What do you think she thinks you use your toilet for—feral raccoon paw-washing station? Please. Please.

On girlfriends: Furthermore, I think it's time for you guys to take this relationship to the next level. My boyfriend can't WAIT to talk to me about his stupid poops. To the point where it's boring now. To the point where one time he texted me a picture of his face from the bathroom with the caption "this is me pooping," and I just rolled my eyes. That's how you can tell we are in love.

On antibiotics: Why so cavalier with the antibiots, d'Artagnan? ONE CANNOT JUST SKIP A PORTION OF ONE'S ANTIBIOTICS BECAUSE ONE IS FEELING SELF-CONSCIOUS ABOUT ONE'S BOWEL MOVEMENTS. This is how we wind up with the kind of antibiotic-resistant super-bacteria that will eat all our faces to death some day. Come on. It's antibiots 101.

On prayer: I really don't think "the Gods" cares whether or not you shit yourself outside a Starbucks bathroom in upstate New York because you ate an unreasonable amount of daikon. They're busy. This is your punishment for your hubris.

That said, I'm glad you're not dead and stuff, and I'm sure that dump was super satisfying. Congrats. Oh but also, lay off the fat dude. He is absolutely not the grossest person in this story.

See you next year, bitchez!!!

Vaginally yours,
Lindy