taking your prints

I've been struck by a visual metaphor recently when wiping myself.  See if you can follow me here:

Your anus is part of your body that you're never gonna see directly.  It's back there, lord knows.  Mirrors aren't new technology, it's been possible to see your rear end in intimate detail for centuries, but it's rare that you do.  It's much more common that you may glance at some toilet paper after it has touched your bum.  Now, maybe you're a person who doesn't look back, and that's fine.  I do.  Maybe you use a bigger wad to wipe yourself, but I tend to use smaller rips of TP, two squares on average I'd say.  So I do a repeated wipe kind of situation.  And allowing for some variation in the consistency of the poo, usually the first wipe or two is about removing the bulk of the stool from your person.  BUT THEN, then you get to something interesting, which is a more intimate print of sorts.  Wiping yourself in such a way is taking a print, making an image of your butt hole.  Better than a mirror, of more artistic interest than a simple reflected anus.  Says me.  So now you can make some jokes about being booked at a police station next time you wipe.  Your welcome.

a classic poop joke that has almost nothing to do with poop

Here is a joke that I remember from elementary school:

After a long day of travelling and selling, a traveling salesman pulls off the road into the first hotel he’s seen in many miles.  Relieved and weary, he asks the front desk person for a room.  “Sorry stranger, all we got is room 13, and no one wants to stay there.”
“Oh I think Room 13 would be just perfect, I’ll take it.”
“Sir, room 13… it’s… well it’s haunted sir.”
“Listen, I’ll be in and out so quick I promise you I won’t notice anything, please just let me have the room.”
“Alright sir, but don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

Entering Room 13, the salesman finds nothing out of the ordinary, just your average dingy American hotel room.  Quickly disrobing, he gets into bed.  As his thoughts begin to fade away into blissful sleep, he is brought back to full alterness by a faint whisper, “When… over… die…”.

Sitting up, he thinks that he is delirious with exhaustion and it must be his head playing tricks on him.  He rolls over, settles in again, and makes another go of sleeping.  He begins to drift again but now hears, a bit louder this time, “When the… over… must die…”

Convinced he really just needs to be with the sandman tout suite, he rolls to the other side and places multiple pillows over his head.  It’s no use, the same eerie sound comes forth again, stronger still: “When the… rolls over all must die…”.

At this point the salesman is fully convinced it’s not just in his head.  He searches the hotel room – under the bed, in the side table by the bible, behind the curtains, and he finds nothing.  A surprisingly clean room.  Now delirious with exhaustion and skeptical of his sanity, he hesitantly creeps back under the covers.  Before his head even hits the pillow, it returns!  “When the log rolls over, all must die.”

Without hesitation, he dresses and goes to the front desk.  Before any words are out of his mouth, the reception clerk says, “I tried to warn you!”.  The salesman pleads with the clerk to help him inspect the room, and the clerk laconically obliges, making a brief search of the room before patting the salesman on the back, offering him some ear plugs, and returning to his post.

Trying to calm himself and avoiding direct eye-contact with the clock, the salesman returns to the bed.  He assures himself he can get through whatever challenges this log and its rolling might present.  He steadies himself and lies down.  Not a minute later he hears, louder than ever, “WHEN THE LOG ROLLS OVER ALL MUST DIE!”, and again and again, with increasing intensity and volume.  He moves towards the sound, and he finds himself kneeling the bathroom, gazing at the closed toilet bowl which he has up to know somehow failed to investigate.  Shaking, he cracks the lid and peers in.  He beholds a horrible site: a line of ants, single file, marching astride a giant, slowly rotating turd, chanting in unison WHEN THE LOG ROLLS OVER ALL MUST DIE!!!!

There was a similar joke with a gorilla in a linen closet, picking his nose and saying to his booger, “I gotcha where I want ya and now I’m gonna eatcha!”.  Why gorillas?  Why ants?  Who knows.

Scales of Limited Validity

The intrepid gf of DDB has brought something most important to our attention:

The Bristol Stool Scale

Almost seems like it's an elaborate joke or something a ten year old came up with, but it's a beautiful thing nonetheless.  Maybe the inventor was just looking to validate the human tendency towards sausage.  The food metaphors in here are indeed most potent.  So next time you need an objective measure of what you're crapping out, look no further.