Is this thing on?

When my good friend Karla said that she wouldn't blog again until I posted something, I thought "Sweet. Mission accomplished." In fact, if preventing Karla from ever blogging again was the only good thing I ever did in life, I think that in terms of karma, that would be enough. Preventing her from procreating would probably have been better, but I kind of missed the boat on that one. Besides, given her vast and ever growing number of sexual partners (by which I mean people she drugs and ties up) I'm not really sure how putting a stop to her gene pool is even possible.

I was all ready to celebrate my accomplishment. I had put up pinatas all over my house, commissioned the creation of a Boston creme donut the size of an armchair, and printed up 3 dozen T-shirts reading "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead: RIP Karlababble." Then, in a moment of clarity the likes of which I have not had since God himself came down from heaven on a white donkey to tell me to stop murdering immigrants, I realized something.

Without Karla's blog, this guy would have nothing to do. In fact, I imagine that Karlababble is the only thing that keeps him sitting in his mom's basement, drooling all over his keyboard, and not out there on the streets, killing puppies and molesting old women. As much as I love the thought of silencing Karla forever. I cannot and will not do it at the expense of all the puppies and old women in Dyckerson's home town.

And so, though it pains me to do so, I have given in to Karla's lame little trick and resumed posting again. This will be great news to the 2 of you that read this blog. (As near as I can tell, one of you is Karla, and the other person is an NSA agent assigned to keep tabs on my activities.) I will make it my mission for the remainder of this year to change this blog from "the finest source of shit and fart stories on the net" to "a place where like-minded individuals can come together as one huge virtual community and hate Karla."

We'll see how that goes.

In the meantime, Karla, I have posted. That means it's your turn. Drag that bloated incubator you call a body out of bed, turn off the 36-hour "Gene Simmons Family Values" marathon and get back to writing about how you hate everyone and love pickle juice. Or whatever it is you write about. I wouldn't know. I skip the posts that aren't about me.

The ball's in your court, Miss Babble.

2006 Year In Review

I made 17 resolutions on New Years Eve. Most of them involved stuffing (or rather, not stuffing) various objects up my ass, but one of them was blog-related. I resolved to blog more often, once a week if possible. As you can see by the fact that it is 2 weeks into January and this is my first post of the new year, I'm already doing a bang-up job.

I promise I'll blog more this year, and I promise that you will continue to wish I hadn't. To get that ball rolling, and to set the tone for the horror that will follow, here is my 2006 Year In Review. Also known as 26 pictures I took of myself shitting in various public restrooms.




Here's to an even more productive 2007!

Muchos Grouchy-Ass!!!

The first thing I do after I dismount the toilet is to turn around and have a post-grump stool inspection.

I lead with that sentence so that you all (and by "you all" I mean the 6 people that still read this blog) will know without a shadow of a doubt that we are once again careening headlong into the dark recesses of my ass. I'm aware that this surprises none of you. It does, however, surprise me, because about a month ago I was introduced by a fellow Baltimore blogger as "the writer of the best shit and fart stories on the net."

Now I'll take a compliment wherever I can get it, and having no shame at all, I have no problem with being known as the "shit and fart guy," but I decided that I would show you all that I have a little more range than that. "I resolve here and now," I said to myself (not out loud, because that would be crazy,) "that the next 6 blog posts I write will not in any way involve farts, shits or my ass." Then I killed a virgin and made a shrine to the shrimp-god Slippygoop out of her bones, because that's how we seal a deal where I come from.

I had every intention of sticking to this resolution, if for no other reason than you really don't want to incur the wrath of Slippygoop. Not unless you like being gnawed to death by millions of sea monkeys. It's not a good way to go. It kind of tickles, and it takes days. but I meant to stick to my guns on this, and I would have, if not for the fact that I recently had a post-grump stool inspection that turned up something weird. Something that I absolutely had to share with you all.

Before we get to that, though, I feel I should explain the whole post-grump stool inspection.

I don't indulge in an inspection of my stools because I'm obsessed with feces. I mean, I am obsessed with feces, but really only the talking about feces. Looking at feces really does nothing for me. See also: Smelling feces, eating feces, juggling feces. My post-grump stool inspection is simply a quick look in the bowl to see how things are stacking up in there. Are we wet? Are we dry? In clumps or one long tube? Sinkers or floaters? These things can tell you a lot about the health of your butt. Most doctors (and by "most," I mean "the crazy ones") will tell you that it's a good idea to examine your stools before you flush them down.

So the post-grump stool inspection is really just another part of the Wombat Commitment to Quality I wrote about a while back. I mean, if I'm going to spend all this digital real estate writing about my shits, shouldn't I do what I can to ensure that they are the best shits I have to offer? See the lengths I go through for you people?

Anyway, on this particular day in question, the standard inspection yielded something kind of new. And it worried me. "Okay, we have 6-8 sinkers... That's normal... 1-2 inches... Some clumping... Also normal... The usual green color... wait. Green?"

Green poops.

GREEN.

Now, in my 34 years on planet Earth I've seen some crazy shit come out of my ass, but green stools was a completely new one for me. I'm not talking about greenish-brown either. I know that's what you are picturing. (or rather, what you are trying desperately not to picture.) I'm not talking about this:



I'm talking about this:



That's not a color you should ever see in the toilet. I'm not kidding and I'm not exaggerating. Full-on green. Imagine standing up after a hairy grump and seeing this staring back at you from the toilet:



I tell you, I was in fear for my life. I'm pretty sure that Oscar The Grouch Craps are the first sign of a brain tumor in your ass. I think it goes Grouch-craps, then the palpitations and the vapors, then your ass falls right off onto the floor and you die. So I did what anyone would do. I ran around the bathroom in circles screaming. I may have cried a little. I remember thinking that if I died right there in the bathroom, I would never again see Karla face-to-face, and despite this silver lining, I still didn't want to die.

What causes green poops? I mean, other than the brain tumor in your ass? Parasites? Viruses? Herpes contracted in a 30-man all-pirate gang-bang? It could have been anything. I knew I should have made those pirates wash their Jolly Rogers!

After about 30 minutes of weeping I booted up my computer, because nothing feeds a panic like the internet. Turns out that the #1 cause of green poops in people over 1 year old is food coloring. (the #1 cause in people under 1 year old is that babies asses are strange and mysterious places.) A careful examination of the things I had eaten in the past 24 hours yielded only one likely culprit:



These things used to be red. Now they're multi-colored. They're multi-colored little bombs of tasty poop stainer. I never knew about the fact that they cause green poops because I hadn't had them in 10 years or so. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that Cap'n Crunch treated my ass like his own personal garbage can. I mean, the guy's not even a real captain. "Cap'n" is some sort of honorary title at best. He's no more qualified to steer a pirate ship than Dr. pepper is to perform bariatric surgery. (boy did I learn that lesson the hard way.)

Anyway, that's the story of my green poops. There's no real lesson to be learned here unless it's "never trust a dude who wears his eyebrows on his hat." (Seriously! Look at that box again!) But the second this happened I knew I had to blog about it, because, let's face it - My ass is the star of this blog, and when it learns a new trick, I'd be remiss if I didn't put it on display. Besides, you know you're all heading out to the store tonight for some Cap'n Crunch to see if it happens to you.

PS: Karla made the comment to me that because I hadn't posted in so long, my blog had become boring. Well Karla, I hope this serves as proof that it can be boring even when I do post something.

How I spent my fall vacation

As many of you know, I had the chance this weekend to spend some time with one of my very favorite people on Earth. Instead, I visited Karla and the small group of trained actors she refers to as her "family." I've met Karla before, but that was only for a few hours. This time I actually spent an entire weekend locked up with her, and let me tell you, it was an educational experience. Let me share with you some of the things I learned:

1) Karla does not fit in a toy car.

I don't know why she felt that she needed to get into the toy car in the first place. Karla is very child-like, and by "child-like," I mean "retarded." It's not like she had anywhere to go, as the device strapped to her ankle starts beeping the minute she steps out the front door... (If she makes it as far as the edge of her lawn she is immediately set upon by 3 Dallas SWAT members and a posse of attack dogs. Boy do I wish I'd gotten pictures of that. Go figure that the one time this weekend she decided to violate the terms of her house arrest and make a break for it, I had "accidentally" left my camera phone hidden behind a few carefully placed washcloths in her shower. Damn.)

Anyway, as you can see here, while there are many things that Karla does fit into, (such as a jail cell, the trunk of a '72 Ford LTD and a series of small plastic coolers - Some dissasembly required for that last one...) she does not really fit into a child's toy car. Also, once she was in there she found that she could not get out. She was still wedged in the car when I left. For all I know, she's still in there now, which is bound to make her pilates class interesting.



2) Karla posesses a working uterus.

I haven't actually got any personal knowledge of her uterus, nor do I have any pictures of it, (stop looking so dissapointed!) but I have seen, first-hand, what comes out of it. No, I'm not talking about the bloody discharge, although there certainly was plenty of that smeared all over her house. I'm refering to her son Jake, who I can now confirm is a living breathing person and not an elaborate photoshop-generated ruse.



I have nothing bad to say about Jake. He is sweet, wonderful and adorable. Which makes it all the more bizzare that he should come from Karla, who posesses none of those qualities. I enjoyed Jake so much that several times during my visit I found myself wishing Brian and Karla would just leave so I could enjoy some time with the only articulate and interesting person in the house. Also, Jake poops in his pants, which makes you okay in my book any day.

3) Karla is a master of photoshop.

You've all seen the pictures of her that she spends all day judiciously plastering all over the internet, and you've all had the same thought that I had: "What a pretty girl."

While I can still neither confirm or deny Karla's gender, I can say one thing without a doubt. All of those photos are heavily doctored. Karla (or someone in her employ) must posess an unbelievable degree of mastery in Photoshop, because when I say the pictures are doctored, I don't mean they are touched-up a little bit. I've been working in Photoshop for 10 years and I don't think I could pull off this kind of photo manipulation. Karla looks absolutely nothing like the pictures you have seen on her blog. She must spend hours upon hours working on these photos to make sure that no trace of her real face ever makes it out to the public eye. The effort is, quite frankly, astonishing. Even the picture above, with her in the baby car, turned out doctored. All I can guess is that she stole my camera phone when I wasn't looking and altered the pictures.

What she doesn't know is that I was able to get away with one photo that she didn't know about, and now present to you, the internet public, the only known completely un-doctored picture of Karla in existance. (Kids, look away now!)



Sorry, Internet, but the truth had to be told.

Flying The Slippery Skies

Early tomorrow morning Sal and I are getting on a plane and heading out for parts unknown. Actually now that I think about it, I hope we are heading to parts known. I hope that I know the parts we are heading to, and I really hope the pilot knows the parts we are heading to. I mean, he's the only one on the plane with a freaking forward-facing window, so I kind of expect him to be the guy who's responsible for getting us where we need to go.

As an aside, one of my greatest pet peeves involves air travel. Whenever I am about to fly somewhere, someone always says "have a safe flight!" Like I get any say at all in whether the fight is safe or not. My hands are tied back in coach. They don't give you a steering wheel back there. Tell it to the guys up front who can actually, you know, fly the plane. When I get on, I like to stick my head into the cockpit and say "My mom said have a safe flight, and I know you boys don't want to let my mom down, so whaddaya say we keep it in the air all the way to Chicago, eh?"

At any rate, being fully aware you can apparently bring down a plane with Gatorade now, I figured I'd better check the TSA's website and familiarize myself with what I will and will not be allowed to bring on the plane. I'm thoughtful like that. I'll do just about anything to avoid a cavity search.

So as we all know, you can no longer board the plane with a bottle of water, hand sanitizer, or lotion. They've pretty much put the kibosh on any liquid or gel. Except those gel inserts for your shoes. If you are gellin' like a felon, You are still welcome on board. But if you sit next to me and insist on tellin' me how gellin' you are, I'll make you eat those fucking insoles.

The list of approved and disapproved items does take a few turns into the bizarre, though. I may not be able to bring a bottle of Aquafina, but I am allowed up to 4 ounces of personal lubricant. I'm not sure exactly what situation may arise on an airplane that would require me to be packing KY, (well, I can think of one, actually. Heh.) but it's good to know that on a long flight, one's throat may be parched, but one's vagina will be damper than an acre of rain forest. I guess the mile high club lobbied hard to get that one included.

I know this will come as a shock to most of you, but you are no longer allowed to bring bug repellent on the aircraft. Looks like passengers will now be utterly defenseless against all the chiggers, gnats and mosquitoes that live in the modern 747. Talk about roughing it... At least you can still wear bells around your ankles to ward off the bears.

You can still bring "toy transformer robots" onto the plane. They went out of their way to mention that specifically for some reason. They also allow toy weapons, as long as they are not "realistic." I'd advise parents to err on the side of caution with this one. If your kid has a toy gun that isn't bright pink and looks wonky like something that fell out of Dr. Seuss' ass, leave it at home. A sure sign that your child's toy weapon was too realistic is your child bleeding out from multiple gunshot wounds on the cold tile of an airport floor.

You can apparently bring drills and other power tools, as long as they are used for the attachment and removal of prosthetic devices. My job occasionally requires me to travel with tools, which I usually pack in the checked luggage, but fuck that! From now on I'm just hiring an amputee to come along and act as cover. "No officer, I need that band saw to take off my buddy's false elbows and prosthetic nipples. It's medical."

Sharp items that are specifically prohibited include: knives (okay), box cutters (I can see the sense in that) , ice axes, meat cleavers and sabres. A serious blow to all of the globe-trotting climbers, butchers and Arabian princes who can no longer practice their trade in flight.

Other prohibited items on the "Damn, I was going to bring one of those" list include: spear guns, cattle prods, starter pistols, nunchakus, throwing stars and hand grenades.

Hand grenades.

I did not need the TSA to tell me that hand grenades are not appropriate on a flight. Well, maybe a long flight with crying babies, but otherwise I was assuming I should leave my hand grenades at home.

Who exactly (with the exception of Steven Segal) is getting on a domestic flight armed for unexpected guerilla combat? Did they get a lot of ninjas in the days before 9/11?

I know 2 things:

1) The world is definitely getting crazier.

2) My carry on tomorrow will hold nothing but my iPod, a book, and possibly some trail mix.

And my allotted 4 ounces of lube.

Thirty-Four Years

Fuck all this "five years" bullshit that's going on today. The real day of infamy was thirty four years ago when Lil' Wombat was lifted from the belly of his sainted mother and hurled into the world like an obscenity-spewing cannonball. My own personal conspiracy theory is that the terrorists picked my birthday to throw planes at buildings as some sort of warning to me. Because if there's one thing the terrorists hate more than freedom, It's poop stories and fart jokes. Nothing spoils a jihad like bun-music.

I waited all day for Katie Couric to show up and interview me, or for the President to publicly condemn me, but both of them were complete no-shows. I also scoured the newspaper for "where were you when Wombat was born" stories, but I found nothing. The blogosphere was similarly devoid of stories about me. Everyone's busy going on and on about the other horrible thing that happened on 9/11. Let's get some perspective here, people!

Yes, the terrorist attacks 5 years ago were horrible. Truly, utterly horrible. But I'd like to think that this blog is even more horrible. And if you think reading me makes you want to throw yourself from a bridge, just imagine talking to me. And I've been spreading my unique brand of stink around the country for way longer than 5 years. So I ask you: Who, really, is the greater threat to our way of life? Osama Bin laden, or yours truly, the Sphincter of Mass Distruction?

How long have I been trying to get the government to institute a color-coded warning system (shades of brown, of course) based on the flatulence levels in my pants? I mean, I'm thinking of the public safety here. But no one in the White House would return my calls. Now every Tom Dick and Achmed with a dirty bomb or a thermos full of anthrax gets a color-coded warning. What a world. I was unleashing toxic gas on the masses way before it was cool.

What is astonishing to me as I look back over my life this far, is how similar I am now to the Lil' Wombat that entered the world all those years ago. He was a whining crying shit-machine with no hair, a tiny penis, and a strong desire to put nipples in his mouth. Today? Well... I cry a little less. Otherwise, pretty much the same dude. Amazing how I can take so long to make such little progress.

At any rate, enjoy your day of rememberance. Have a moment of silence for those 2973 poor souls who died 5 years ago. But when you're done doing that, take a moment to recall the original "dirty bomb," introduced to a cringing America on this day in 1972.

Poopslinger

I have terrible aim. This is something that you might as well know about me. Terrible, horrible aim.

It's true when I'm throwing a wad of paper at a trash can, It's true when I'm throwing my skidmarked undies at the hamper, and as Sally will gladly tell you (while kneeling on the bathroom floor and employing a large variety of cleaning products), It's true when I'm aiming my wizzle-stick at the toilet. Lousy, lousy aim. Don't even get me started on my inability to play darts. If I'm holding a dart, the safest place in the world to stand is directly in front of me, because that's the one place that dart ain't ever going.

So fact "a" that you should be keeping in your head, for it is germane to the story I am about to tell you, is that I have lousy aim. Fact "b" for you to hold onto is that I live in a row house, which is an end unit on a corner, and that I have, sticking off the side of the rear of my house, a little tiny useless garage.

"Useless" is probably a bit of an overstatement. It has plenty of uses. It's just that none of those uses includes parking (or for that matter fitting) an actual automobile inside of it. Given that the definition of "garage" is "an outbuilding (or part of a building) for housing automobiles," I'd say that the little room on the back of my house with the cool roll-up door fails utterly to be a garage. Maybe it was built years ago, in a bygone age when cars were, oh... 5 feet wide. If you drove a Mini you could probably get it into my garage, but you certainly couldn't open the doors. You'd have to climb out the windows, "Duke-boy" style, if you ever wanted to actually come inside for an iced tea or something.

We have no idea what possessed one of the previous owners to build a tiny garage. We have no idea if it was at one time functional or if it is some sort of elaborate practical joke. We use it mostly as a junk room, and a place to keep the garbage until garbage day, at which time, I roll up the door and plop the trash cans out on the sidewalk.

Anyway, to recap, the things you should now know are:

a) Lousy aim
b) Tiny, stupid "garbage room" garage

Okay. On with the (by now completely un-thrilling and anticlimactic) story.

This morning around 11, I arrive home from running a few errands. You may imagine that by "errands" I mean eating scones off the naked back of an armless asian woman with some of Baltimore's intelectual elite or possibly arranging a series of diabolical prison breaks that will soon have this city on its knees, begging for mercy. I don't actually mean either of those things, but you may imagine that I do. I pull in behind a very shiny and obviously brand new blue Mustang. It's quite a pretty car, somewhat out of place in my neighborhood, and someone has gone to great lengths to really make it sparkle. It's one of these here:


(Common Wombat in no way is affiliated with, nor does he endorse, the Ford Motor Company. Unless they'd like to send him a free car. Then he'll endorse whatever they want him to, because Common Wombat is a big fat whore.)

I am distracted from my admiration for the pretty, pretty car, by the sight of something lying on the lid of one of my trash cans. I know what it is the second I see it. It's a little plastic sandwich bag filled with shit.

(Common Wombat is also in no way affiliated with, nor does he endorse, little plastic sandwich bags filled with shit.)

I keep my trash cans inside of my little tiny garage. They only sit outside for a few hours twice a week on garbage day, but in that short window of time between when the garbage men empty them, and when I take them back inside, they always manage to acquire a few bags of dog shit. It's irritating to have to house someone else's crap for a few days, but honestly I'm just glad they are actually picking up their turds instead of leaving them scattered around my kitchen door like a fly-encrusted mine-field. That's assuming that the pooch-poo comes in the standard approved package of an intact plastic shopping bag, tied off securely and placed inside my trash can. Double-bagged is even better. If I see you double-bagging, I'll come outside and kiss you.

This wasn't a trash bag, it wasn't tied off, and it wasn't actually in the can. This was a pile of fresh soft steamers in an open sandwich bag, lying on the lid of the can. That's just bad neighborship in my book, and it caused me to make the following face:



I'm a generally loving and kind guy. But there's only so much of dealing with someone else's smelly turd bombs that I can take before I snap a little. Besides, it's been a hard few weeks, you know?

So, full of righteous anger, I went over to the trash can (still making the face) and picked up the bag of shit by one corner. I summoned up all of my intense hatred for the dog walkers of America who don't practice neighborly shit-scooping practices, and with a mighty swipe of my bear-like paw, I flung the offending poo-pouch across the street.

Or at least, that's how it happened in my head. In reality the mighty swipe of my paw was more of a feeble flap of my flipper, and the little turd-sack wound up sailing sort of diagonally about 15 feet away...

...And right smack onto the trunk of the shiny new Mustang, where it promptly unloaded all of its little brown passengers to play all over the back of the car. Immediately my face of righteous rage morphed into my face of "holy shit I'm a gigantic asshole."



What does a good neighbor do after he has plastered the back of your expensive and spit-shined new car with fresh dog shit?

I wouldn't know. I hid in my kitchen.