8:13 a.m. - 2005-08-26
Poop Action
Popcorn and poop it is.
It�s not really a story though. I never said it was a story. I said it was a discussion. Big difference. So you many find yourself disappointed when it stays a discussion rather than developing into a big ol� story of poop.
My observations of the opposite sex during relationships never cease to make me snicker. Men are so obvious. You guys don�t posses a subtle bone in your body.
When it comes to passing gas or dropping the kids off at the pool�you guys have absolutely no shame. Women will be discrete and do everything possible to keep that side of ourselves as secretive as possible.
After all�do we really want to know what someone sounds like when they�re squeezing a few off? Doesn�t it take just a wee bit of the romance out of the relationship?
Case in point:
The Boyfriend loves movie popcorn. Any teenage dickstick who works behind the counter can easily see a sucker coming anytime he goes to get popcorn.
�You know, for only 50 cents more you can get this uber-massive-poop-missile-sized popcorn.�
And he bites every time. He can�t pass up a deal. Period.
So there we sit with a gi-normous quantity of popcorn which equals to be Metamucil in a bag. Because sadly, movie popcorn, with its shitload of butter, causes the poor man to have to run straight for the toilet after every single fucking movie.
But he�s not discrete about it. Oh my good Lordy no.
It�s the same ending to the evening every fucking time. Roll credits, get up quickly, exchange pleasantries about the movie, ask if he wants to stop at bathroom, get the reply that no he doesn�t like to poop in public, race to car, squeeze in cigarette, drive mach 10 home, run me over getting to the door first, he races in bathroom, slams door, grunts for 10 minutes, exits bathroom, waves hand around, claims that he wouldn�t go in there if he were me, claims he thought he was gonna shit his pants on the way home, moves in for a little kiss and some action.
Seriously?
