Sunday, June 16, 2019

small thought

Older guys, wearing New Balance sneakers (you know which ones), taking dumps and making sounds in bathrooms with multiple stalls. That is all.

Wednesday, June 5, 2019

poop scoop

When you live with other people, and you only have one bathroom, there is the inevitability that one of you will be pooping while another person feels the pangs of needing to. It's rough stuff, but you get through it.

Recently, the timing of things has worked out such that my partner & roommate of many years has been scooping me on the bathroom, has been getting in there just as I find myself needing the shit the most. There is no blame, it's just something to pay attention to in the way sabremetric baseball people analyize hit clusters (if you hit 9 singles in an inning, you'll score a lot of runs, but if you hit 9 singles spread out over 9 innings, you probably won't). Pooping analytics.

Tuesday, June 4, 2019

work perk

Something I like in a working set up, not just an office, but a place you work, broadly defined (could be a coffee shop, a library, someone across the street whose apartment you can see into, etc), is when you have a perch that helps you be aware of who's dumping and when. It's none of my business, and I'm not gonna say anything, but it makes me feel like I know people better when I get a little sense of their dumping goings-on.

Friday, May 24, 2019

DDB endorses

I have been made aware of the cool thing that is Buttcon, to be held once again this summer in Detroit. Buttcon Buttcon Buttcon. Lots of art and thoughts and feelings about butts. A hearty endorsement over here from Doo Doo Bloggin for the work they're doing! And they're making a zine that may well have some writing from a familiar source in it... stay tuned! And read up on Buttcon!

Friday, April 12, 2019

doo doo grillin

I'm thinking of starting a spin off lifestyle blog to Doo Doo Bloggin called Doo Doo Grillin.

Wednesday, April 10, 2019

teenage fears

The way that your memory compresses things decades back is nothing strange. I'm thinking about how many years other people wipe your butt for you, and then when you do learn, how many years it takes you to be consistently good at it. Once you are entrusted with the responsibility of wiping your own ass and adult undergarments, there's gonna be some years with the occasional skid mark. It just takes some time to perfect.

When I was, let's say, 12-18, that period of non-mastery really stuck with me. It was a decade or less since I had figured out wiping my own ass. The last time I shit my pants was age 10. I probably had an occasional skid mark here or there, as even still as an adult, sometimes I do a less than bang-up job.

But the thing about ages 12-18 or so was that I was constantly worried that I'd wiped insufficiently and there was still some shit residue. I felt I was singularly bad at wiping, and that as a result I always smelled kind of like shit. I have always been a sitting down wiper, but I might end with a couple standing up "power moves" to make sure it's all gone. I actually still do that some times. I overwipe these days not uncommonly, I know I'm fine but I keep going.

I remember being around a friend when I was 14 who had a bad smell and thinking, oh, he must also be bad at wiping his ass. I made fun of him to project these insecurities, it really got to him. I probably smelled fine.

In high school, I thought about who was sitting behind me, and how they must smell my ass-smell. I'm pretty sure they didn't. It was also a time when I had long hair and I wanted very badly for my hair to retain shampoo smell (I used Herbal Essences, they advertised a lot then) the way female friends of mine's hair did. I wanted the good hair smell to stay, but thought only the shit particle smell was there. It was a very smell sensitive time.

My freshman year of college, I remember being mooned through a large pane of glass by a friend. I jokingly yelled at him "you should learn to wipe properly", conveying one of my own secret concerns. But then this fear just kind of fell away later that year. No precipitating incident I can remember for that, it just fell away. There is no perfect ass wiping, but I do a good enough job and I feel solid in that now. The memory of the fear is something that's lurking in the back of my mind.

Monday, March 25, 2019

a great euphenism

At a record fair yesterday, a friend and I agreed that "putting out a seven inch" would be a great euphemism for taking a shit, a large shit. "Putting out a twelve inch" just seems preposterous given how shit comes out of me, but hey, others do things their way. After you were done, you could say "I just dropped a seven inch".

Friday, March 22, 2019


I'm truly not accustomed to constipation in any way. Earlier this week, I acquired what appears to be a stomach bug of some variety. These things, they happen. I had a fever for a couple days, and then on Wednesday I shat liquid all morning. By the early afternoon I had gotten all the stuff out of my gut that needed to get out, or that could. From like 1pm on Wednesday to 7pm on Thursday, I had one pathetic little shit. Not shitting for like 12 or 15 hours is vexing. How do people do that?

It's still pretty quiet at 10am on Friday. One shit in over 40 hours. Granted, the input was low, I lost my appetite for a day or more. Probably not best framed as constipation. But how do you measure time, measure that you're alive, if not by shitting?

Monday, March 11, 2019

current mood

Since last night I've been in a head space where Dickey Ride by the Southern Players has been kicking around. It's a catchy song. Very successful as a dance track. Also pretty sophomoric and stupid on some other levels. I shared the fact that it's in my head with my friend AL who introduced me to the song, but I feel the need to broadcast slightly louder that this is happening, hence, I'm posting about it here.

The connection to Doo Doo Bloggin is the line:

"Lemme' see that doo-doo brown"

For those of you who've read Doo Doo Bustin, the book that pre-dated this blog, you'll know I reference "doo-doo brown" as a possible concept in that book. So, maybe, I was just ripping the Southern Players off, or, you know, great minds, etc.

Saturday, March 2, 2019

memory from the cage

I grew up in Pittsburgh. I never lived in Squirrel Hill, but I spent a lot of time there. It was my favorite part of town. Plenty of important associations relating to construction of culture, diet, identity down there on Forbes and on Murray. Big place in my life.

I haven’t spent much time in Pittsburgh as an adult. I was there for professional/creative purposes back in 2013 and 2014. I was staying in the East End both times, but not exactly in Squirrel Hill. Nonetheless, I ended up at the Squirrel Cage on one of those visits, right in the heart of the neighborhood. It was probably a Friday night, not too late but not early. I would’ve been off beer by then, maybe I was DD. We had a solid hang at the bar, which it was assumed I knew well as I’d grown up there (I moved away when I was 14, and I didn’t regularly drink alcohol til I was 18, or frequent bars til I was 21). It was foreign to me, as was bar culture in Pittsburgh. I think it’s fair to say Pennsylvania has a bar culture that’s robust and distinct from other states, and maybe Pittsburgh specifically so within that.

Anyway, as a long travel day often is, it was a weird day vis a vis shitting. You get into town and you start meeting up with people and doing stuff and you might not take care to defecate with the speed or attention you would if you were at home. So I had some tokens saved up. I went to the bathroom of the Squirrel Cage to shit.

There was a urinal right when you walked in and a little swinging door to a toilet. The swinging door didn’t lock, but the outside door to the bathroom did. I paused and evaluated the options:
a.) don’t lock the door and essentially be shitting with the door open, anyone can walk in on me
b.) lock the door and possibly start a small queue, no one will walk in on me

I went with b. Apparently that was a bold choice for the patrons of the Squirrel Cage. Pretty quickly after I started, someone came to open the door, saw it was locked, and let out a “huh?”. A couple more people gathered, all of them trying to do a quick piss, presumably, and all of them baffled by the door. “What’s happening in there?” “What’s going on?” “Why’s the door locked?” “I need to piss” “I don’t understand” etc.

I don’t think of myself as being a “words are precious, only talk when you have something to say” kind of person. I like idle talking, I like all the things you measure or articulate with words that are, strictly speaking, unnecessary, that are extra. But these were just comically so. All of these grown men couldn’t figure out that someone was probably shitting in the bathroom. I mean, there are lots of different reasons/activities that could result in a locked door, but shitting is just a really basic and central reason there’s a door in the first place. Their befuddlement was simultaneously very entertaining and a little threatening.

It wasn’t a long shit. I was quick, washed my hands, got out and didn’t look back. No drama at the end, just puzzles in the middle.

There’s related stories to this. I can think of NYC bars that are like this where there’s capacity for multiple people in the men’s room, not just in urinal form, but if someone’s gonna shit, or moreover, not piss, it’s really capacity of one. That’s a totally fine model for a bathroom, but it’s vexing for drunk men with full bladders. I have also witnessed the “I’m so drunk I’m going to shit in this tiny room, staring at you while you’re at the urinal” move. I don’t like it, but I respect it I guess. Ultimately, I’m not a bar person.

Monday, February 18, 2019

dreamy guest post

We're very pleased to have some high quality guest-post content to share with you! This post comes from long time reader, first time doo-doo-blogger Jeffrey Young, and it is as poem. Here goes:

A Poem About Dreaming About a Poem About Poop

I dreamt about a poem about poop and struggled to remember it when I awoke
The poem was in five stanzas
The first stanza was about a particularly large poop back in maybe September
And how the toilet must have been flushed since then because we couldn’t see it in there anymore
The second and third stanzas were perhaps odes to particular poops since then
Which were probably still in there
The fourth stanza was on the wonders of the composting toilet
The fifth stanza was about how there are many rivers to cross
And how I look forward to fording all of them

Thank you so much Jeffrey for this defecatory gem. Many happy turds to you!

Thursday, February 14, 2019

short form answer

The past couple weeks, my shits have mostly come quickly, in low volume, and pretty unsatisfyingly. It's like a couple little bits in the morning, or before bed, or really any time in the middle. Once in a while, this is punctuated by a large, urgent shit around 10am. For many years, I've been a 2-4 shits a day kind of person, and that's fine, but this nibbling around the edges is just no fun.

Tuesday, January 22, 2019

thinking about regularity

I don't think that much about the regularity with which I shit. It occurs in roughly similar patches. Whatever. If it didn't, I wouldn't be too bothered.

I was thinking today that I care more about posting about shit on this blog is the kind of regularity I'm most attached to. I haven't been very regular given my more recent pace, but given the pace of the last 10 years, maybe this is actually more normal. Regularity fluctuates is the lesson I guess.