Welcome to Lauren's Log!
Hello, and welcome to Lauren's Log, the place where I document the latest and greatest in my scatological life. Here, I will tell stories related to that often un-talked-about part of human existence, and will reveal to you the fecal aspects of my life, and the lives of others, as seen by my southern-most brown eye. Thanks for stopping by, and enjoy!
______________________________________________________Friday, October 7, 2011 - - Bathroom Sonnet
Now to briefly travel back in time.... A few months ago, I was in England, sitting through my two hour (wicked awesome!) Ulysses class and was writing some random journal-like stuff, just to clear some clutter from my brain. I was feeling a bit homesick that day, and I particularly missed the beach. Well, at about the one-hour mark, I decided I would take a break from class and head to the loo, since I'd had a killer Adderall-fueled fanny explosion brewing all morning. While sitting in the stall located in the girl's bathroom near the JCR and Buttery, I felt suddenly insightful. One more little note: the bathroom in question always smelled strikingly like beach farts. You know, like when you got a sandy bum? Anyways, here's what I wrote upon returning to class.
Sat in the center stall today.
First time for everything I guess.
like salt-soaked bikini bottoms,
crusting in the sun.
Far from sun, now,
and far from sea salt sand.
Funny, isn't it?
I feel closest to that much-missed world
while perched astride the bowl.
I even watched as waves lapped,
whirlpooled with the pull of a chain.
All drains to the ocean lead?
Flush me, too.
Ta da! I know it's no "La Belle Dame sans Merci," but it's not too shabby for a bathroom-inspired lament.
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Thursday, October 6, 2011 -- The Saxophone
Overall Description: The Saxophone.
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| Picture 43a |
Noise Level: Disappointingly quiet. I mean, how freakin' sweet would it be if, upon initiating defecation, the instrumental sax chorus from Gerry Rafferty's "Baker Street" erupted in all its musical wonder from my puckered mouth of the south?
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| Picture 67b |
Other Comments: Asian boy of Picture 43a was not included in today's bowel movement. Oh, if only.
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Wednesday, Sept. 21, 2011 -- Our Terrlit's on the Fritz!
The past few weeks have been a real test of my love for the brown clowns from downtown, if you know what I mean, because I have been living in a house (a very small one, mind you) with three young adult males, and no functioning toilet. We had only been moved in for approximately 4 days when our one terrlet started acting up. Granted, those first four days were wrought with back-to-school revelry, and were consequently marked by particularly high toilet traffic, 'cuz you know, once you break the seal.... So anyways, our toilet was apparently overwhelmed by the sudden increase in dookular dropoffs, and so each flush became increasingly more laborious and strenuous for him. Eventually, he slammed his lid down in a sign of surrender, and ceased to even gurgle. So, we have tried to get it fixed once (and really have been meaning to arrange for a second attempt, but we are all lazy and usually toasted), and it didn't really help much. All four of us have learned to live around the lack of proper waste management, using techniques varying with the individual.
My boyfriend, Ben, uses the most helpful and most daring technique. After using the facilities for the depositing of a "twosie," he then rolls up his sleeves, grabs the plunger (now ringed with chunky brown bum scum), and proceeds to first gather the logs, and then forcefully push them down into the hole.
Eventually, after much elbow grease, and the
occasional projectile of poo stew into the face,
Ben manages to force the contents of the bowl,
water and all, into the godforsaken pipes beneath.
Honestly, my love for Ben has taken on a semblance of hero-worship over these past few weeks. How lucky am I to have scored a man who is not only undeterred by my fecal fascination and frequent gaseous emissions, but a man who is unphased by feces in general? Ben, faced with a bowl of cheek leakage, no matter whose it is (although he swears he can identify whose movements are whose by now), will wield his plunger with confidence and poise, and face the monster head on. Even just now, as I write this, I just heard Ben head to the can, open the lid and then exclaim, "Holy good God!" But he did not shy away from the festering load before him. No, for moments later I heard the unmistakable guttural utterances of a toilet being plunged, and then the lid clattering back into its closed position.
Not all of us are so brave as Ben. I tried my hand at plunging, but found that I was entirely too namby pamby about it. One must be forceful to effectively plunge, and I am not aggressive in any sense of the word, perhaps especially when dealing with the products of my sphinctural labor. Instead, I usually walk to the nearest functioning toilet, and do my business there. My favorite place to go is Del Taco, just down the road. I've never actually eaten there, but they certain have got a fine john. Very private, and not too bad smelling. It smells a bit like my primary care physician's rubber gloves.
But anyways, Ben and I are the most courteous of the bunch, I do believe. One roommate in particular is unabashedly forward about his contributions to our porcelain cesspool. So against plunging is he that he even offered Ben a by-the-log rate if he would plunge his logs for him. (Ben refused, on the basis of pride, although he did give it a moment or two of thought.) And so, at least in the case of that roommate, and depending on whether Ben is in a plunging mood, the toilet remains unplunged, no matter what has recently plopped, ploomped, or squirted into it.
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| Picture A |
No level of expectation can prepare me for
looking someone else's few-hour-old bowel
movement in the eye. Bloated and crumbling
and clumpy, incubated for hours in already
contaminated water, these loads will melt the skin
from your face and the eyeballs from your sockets.
There was a stretch of about two days in which, no matter when I was to peer beneath that lid, there would be a torpid, semi-congealed porridge lurking beneath. The explanation? "Sorry about the toilet these past few days, that has all been me. I ate Chinese food the other night, so...you know how that is," my well-meaning roommate admits. I commend him for his honesty. And for having such a healthy colon.
I'm interested to see how the the broken toilet thing pans out because I don't see it getting properly fixed anytime soon. I'm sure there will be more stories to follow, so do stay tuned. And please, every time you lower your quivering flanks onto a working toilet, say a silent prayer of thanks to Sterquilinus, the Roman god of poop (well, actually manure), for bestowing you with such a gift. And do give the toilet an encouraging pat, too. He deserves it, trust me.
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Monday, July 11, 2011 -- Escalator Flatulence
Just a short little tidbit that really gave me a chuckle. At the airport in London, all the people on my flight had to cram onto an escalator, and the quarters were very tight. I was standing behind an Indian guy, and I was eye level with his bum. Well, he proceeded to rip one, very loudly mind you, directly in my face. Now, at first it seemed accidental, which I can understand, but the guy then squeezed another one out (it sounded like a zipper). And so, trapped on my escalator stair with all my luggage and no room to budge, I was inundated with the fumes of this anonymous Indian man's noxious gaseous emissions, directly in my face. Welcome to England! Tahaha
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Friday, May 20, 2011 -- Roughin' It These past couple of weeks have been characterized by long car rides, music festivals, bouts of temporary homelessness, frequent tent camping, hallucinogenic experiences, and the accompaniment of my boyfriend and soul mate, Ben. We traveled throughout the south, spending most nights curled up uncomfortably on the hard, root-studded ground, roasting within the canvas walls of our tent. At last minute one evening, Ben and I decided we would attend the Alphapalooza music festival in the middle of nowhere in Tennessee. The description was intriguing, promising a range of musical acts, from techno to rap to rock 'n' roll (it ended up, torturously, being mostly techno), a bmx course, campfires, and pyrotechnics. The music festival was held at a very remote venue, tucked amidst a series of winding Tennessee back roads (it was nearly impossible to find). The land itself featured a small lake-like body of water, multiple waterfalls and swimming holes, and ATV trails through the woods.
Now, a remote, enclosed location such as this one was optimal for a music festival in many ways. The hot, sunny daytime hours could be spent exploring the land and lazing about the shoreside with beer cans in hand--relaxation to the max(ation). The nighttime, on the other hand, was an explosion of sound and flashing lights, and no neighbors or authority figures were nearby to ruin our fun. Unfortunately, though, the site housed only one rumored Sani-Can, or Porta-Potty, which was reserved, informally, only for defecation. Therefore, one frequently caught sight of men, women, and children making their way to various stretches of the woods to empty their bladders. Now, peeing in the woods is one thing, but ol' number two is another concept entirely. But this one lone Porta-Potty was rumored to be an absolute atrocity. While I did not see or experience the Porta-Potty myself (which really is a pity, as it would have been great for research), I was told of its horrors by a fellow festival goer whom I shall refer to as Hank.
"Oh, it was disgusting," said Hank, grimacing with the memory. "There's only the one toilet, you know, and it's basically reserved for shit, since we can all just piss in the woods. And Randy [the organizer of the festival; not his real name] decided to just kinda dig the hole or whatever extra deep so he wouldn't have to worry about it or clean it all weekend. And you know with this heat, a whole weekend worth of shit is just roasting in there. But anyways, I don't wanna sit here and gross you out with this shit talk all night.."
I assured him that shit was exactly what I wanted to talk about, and pressed him forward in his tale.
"Well, I went in there, and it smelt so
bad that I had to leave the door halfway open
while I went, and I had to breathe through my
mouth or else I would just puke everywhere"
I asked him whether he looked in the hole, and to encourage him, confessed that I myself always looked in the hole. It's not often you can get such a great view of other people's poo. He shrugged and admitted that he may have taken a quick peak, but didn't get too much of a view because of all the blue stuff. Plus, he was just trying to get out of there toward the fresh, feces-free air.
Having heard Hank's disturbing tale, I was pleased that I had avoided that horrible Porta-potty experience, and had taken a more rustic approach. Just earlier that day, having not even heard of the existence of a Porta-Potty on site, I had taken my primal, fecal urges (which were rapidly growing in intensity the longer I stalled) into the hands of mother nature herself. With the help of Ben, who acted as lookout,
I made my way into the woods and posted up
behind a tree, a few paper towels
crumpled in my hand.
behind a tree, a few paper towels
crumpled in my hand.
I shook my head in amusement as I wrenched my shorts down around my ankles
and exposed my bare buttocks to the elements.
I then allowed nature to take its course, all the while observing the bustling activity of a colony of ants located near my left foot.
Before I knew it, the process was complete, and it was the sort of movement one dreams about: it was swift, it was clean, and it was refreshing. Rebuckling my belt, I turned to admire my contribution to the forest floor, not bothering to cover it or bury it (which was very naughty of me, but perhaps it shall act as fertilizer), and walked away, taking great care not to trod in my own pile. It was honestly one of the most satisfying movements I have ever had. I recommend everyone to give it a try, especially when your options are slim. One word of advice: if you're going to go the au-naturale route and contribute your excrement to the earth, I suggest you really let it brew inside you first. It makes the going easier, and the delivery faster. And, of course, always bring a few tissues or something. After all, there's nothing pleasant about a dirty southern-most spout. God bless!
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Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Overall Description: the Controversial Kaka. Obviously, the fact that my movement took the shape of South America does not mean that I equate the South American peoples with feces. I love South America! And so does my colon, apparently. Delivery: Difficult at first, but it got progressively easier (you can see what I mean if you observe the geographical shape of the South American continent)
Positive Aspects: It's always an exciting moment when you see a familiar shape bobbing about in the bowl. One time, I had a log shaped uncannily like a see-saw.
Negative Aspects: You see that point along the coast of Brazil? Try passing that bad boy.
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Negative Aspects: You see that point along the coast of Brazil? Try passing that bad boy.
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April 2011
Wowie, what a month! I have been so busy, I haven't even had time to poop!
Partially because of the time factor, I have decided to continue "Lauren's Log" on the following basis: Should a particularly memorable movement occur, I shall post about it. I shall also share interesting stories from my past and from the world around me, all, of course, involving or relating to scatalogical pursuits. However, in the case of the normal, everyday, humdrum bum crumb, I will not necessarily post. I have decided to switch it up because, due to my regularity in both diet and digestion, my movements have not been of any particular merit, and have been uninterestingly similar in experience and appearance. There now!
I do have one funny anecdote from my recent stall-bound adventures which I shall share with you now.
The Fossil
Seeing that humans are animals, it makes sense that we should pick our places of defecation with great care. Picture the persistent puppy, circling and sniffing in the grass, searching for the perfect place to deposit his recycled kibble--such is the process of the duty-bound human. We all have favorite facilities, based upon preferences such as flusher intensity, level of privacy, constipation accommodation (i.e., the presence of handicap handrails, adequate for squeezing in times of duress), etc. For this reason, I have staked out the most optimal public facilities available on my college campus.
One of my most-frequented facilities on this campus is located upstairs from the cafeteria. It is not surprising that I should tend toward this facility; mere moments after swallowing my last bite of colitis-inducing cafeteria food, I must make haste toward the upstairs wasteland to rid myself of newly acquired toxins. (I jest, I actually quite like the cafeteria food. It does certainly regulate the ol' system though). Anyhow, despite the prime location of this facility, it does not boast many other incentives. The privacy is limited, depending on the time of day and contents of the cafeteria menu, and at least one of the flushers is very weak. Be that as it may, a week or two ago, I found myself sidling into the handicap-accessible stall of that facility, ready to unload.
After my mission was complete, I stood up to admire my work, nodded in approval, and pushed the flusher with great gusto. Despite my enthusiastic flourish, the swirl of water within the bowl was disappointing in speed and power. My bouyant buddies drifted leisurely around the circumference and into the hole. Unfortunately, one little nugget did not quite make it down, and instead fluttered tauntingly within the bowl. The little morsel was about the size of the average marble, and was dark brown. I shrugged my shoulders, wished him luck, and tarried off, never giving him another thought.
The next day, I went to the caf to grab some lunch, and was grieved by the same insistent bodily urge as I had been the day before. I found myself, once again, heading upstairs to the ol' loo. Upon arriving, I hastened toward the usual stall, and lazily shut the door behind me. When I turned around, I elicited the slightest of gasps, for, gadzooks!, there in the bowl was the faint ghost of yesterday's offering. My urges momentarily forgotten, I peered closer at the little fellow, intrigued by the experimental value of the situation. I had seen the results of leaving a large load to fester (my goodness, that is not pretty...another story for another time), but had never before witnessed the results of a resilient pooplet.
And there it was! Bloated and slightly translucent,
a spongy light gray/brown fecal flake floated meekly in the
water (which had remained entirely clear)
where once had been a dense, dark brown little butt-bean.
I was transfixed! It looked like something that had been excavated on an archeological dig, like some sort of prehistoric, fossilized cocoa puff, which had at one time been left to soak in milk.
What a valuable finding, I thought. I then attended to my needs without further delay. Upon turning to flush, I sighed and smiled. "Go on home, little fella," I said, and reluctantly flushed him and his new friends down. I watched as he carelessly careened among them, and fluttered gladly into that great, dark, mysterious hole that awaited him.
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What a valuable finding, I thought. I then attended to my needs without further delay. Upon turning to flush, I sighed and smiled. "Go on home, little fella," I said, and reluctantly flushed him and his new friends down. I watched as he carelessly careened among them, and fluttered gladly into that great, dark, mysterious hole that awaited him.
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Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Overall Description: Refreshing as a Cracked Knuckle
Delivery: Smooth and refreshing; let out a sigh of relief upon completionNoise Level: No notable flatulence; one very loud plunk. This guy was of tremendous girth.
Positive Aspects: It felt fantastic, and was a clean sweep.
Negative Aspects: None
Other Comments: Very broad on leading end, and rather broad on tail end. Kinda looked like a clenched fist and a forearm. I swear, this bad sally even had knuckles.
Possible Premonition: I got a good feeling from this fella. I think some big things are in store, and that the stress of this time of year will abate soon.
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Monday, February 28, 2011
Overall Description: Musical Mushroom Craps
Delivery: Like pouring pebbles out of a wide-brimmed sack.
Noise Level: Lots of plinking and plonking, like a little song.
Positive Aspects: Refreshing and clean.
Negative Aspects: There was a buoyant little floater that kept swimming against the current of the flush. That little fella wasn't going down without a fight. Had to double flush.
Other comments: Oddly-shaped little morsels, kinda like mushroom caps.
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Thursday, February 24, 2011
Delivery: Practically fell out of me.
Noise Level: One medium-sized trumpet-like burst.
Positive Aspects: Swift and refreshing.
Negative Aspects: A little looser than normal due to excessive marination in the chamber.
Other Comments: Appeared rather porous and sponge-like. Double-flusher, due to inadequate facilities.
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Overall Description: Disconnected Doody
Delivery: Swift, smooth, and comfortably lubricated.
Noise Level: Preliminary gust of wind, little actual vocalization.
Positive Aspects: Location was prime. Aided by Adderal.
Negative Aspects: Some extra swabbing of the poop deck necessary.
Other Comments: Poor fellow broke in half.
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Delivery: Some tip-emergence hesitation. Smooth sailing upon takeoff.
Positive aspects: Found some more corn in there, so that brightened my day.
Negative Aspects: Freedom of expression stifled by public setting. Also, the previously-sprayed baby powder scented air freshener, intermingled with the reek of my own pungent contribution, made the air smell like a dirty diaper.
Other Comments: Curiously shaped. Blunt and rounded on emerging end, and thin and pointed on trailing end. Shape may have been affected by rushed nature of the experience, and by a stress-induced premature clench.
Overall Description: Be-Kerneled Lumpy Dump
Delivery: Sharp, eased by caffeine
Noise Level: Minimal
Positive Aspects: Quick and clean
Negative Aspects: Pointy, hard, lumpy
Other Comments: Pleased to spot some corn kernels nestled in there.
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Sunday, February 20, 2011
Overall Description: Premature Pebbles
Delivery: Labored
Noise Level: Minimum
Positive Aspects: Clean as a whistle
Negative Aspects: Disappointing, no real relief sustained
Other Comments: Should have let this one brew a little longer.
Other Comments: Pleased to spot some corn kernels nestled in there.
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Sunday, February 20, 2011
Delivery: Labored
Noise Level: Minimum
Positive Aspects: Clean as a whistle
Negative Aspects: Disappointing, no real relief sustained
Other Comments: Should have let this one brew a little longer.
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