Going Brown

I've decided I'm not going green. Ever. That said, I am going brown.

Green is the color of money. Green is also the color of envy -- the Green-Eyed Monster.

Green doesn't do it for me. I like brown. Brown is the color of dirt, manure, fertilizer, explosive diarrhea, and skid marks. Poop makes good fertilizer -- and good stories

Brown is the color of honest labor and sweat. Brown is the color of hard work. Brown is the color of getting your hands dirty.

We can't have green grass, pastures, trees, plants, or even green tea without dirt.

To quote Mike Rowe of the Discovery Channel's Dirty Jobs, brown comes before green, because you can't have green without brown.

Green is the pretty part, the end result that usually looks good and smells nice. Brown is the not-so-pretty part that sometimes stinks -- and even sticks.

I respect dirt and the elbow grease required to remove it.

While I can't call myself green, I can honestly call myself brown. I do hard work. I get my hands dirty. Maybe not every day, but I get around to it.

Brown has been good to me. I have written some well-received stories about poop -- the stinky, sticky, sometimes liquid, kind of brown.

Go green if you want. I look better in brown.

Poop on a Stick

My sister told me this story. She said a friend of hers told it to her, and it originally came from her friend's husband. I have spruced it up a bit for entertainment purposes.

A painter was hired to do some work for a woman who had just bought a large house on a very nice wooded lot. She said he was welcome inside, naturally, but she told him the electricity wasn't on yet, and not to use the toilets. He thought it a bit strange at the time but gave it no further thought. Many clients had odd requests they never clarified.

He arrived on the appointed day and got to work. As the hours went by, he felt something familiar to all of us. A certain FULL feeling in his nether regions / undercarriage / boiler room. Nature was calling, big time. And she was calling collect.

He didn't want to pack up his stuff and hop into his truck just to find a restroom. He still had a few hours of work to do. He remembered the powder room toilet he had been cautioned against using. He felt slighted and angry.

She has money, she just bought a house, but she won't let a lowly tradesman like me use her toilet. He had to go. He put his tools down and went to find the toilet. He entered the small powder room. Just enough natural light crept in so he could see. The room had recently been redecorated, and quite nicely, too, he had to admit. The lady had taste. Maybe he should look for a toilet upstairs. A wave of cramps nearly doubled him over and helped him to rapidly make a decision. The powder room would do.

He yanked his painting pants down as quickly as he could and sat down with almost a crash. The next set of cramps came and he grunted and squeezed. It WAS like giving birth, he thought, but every time he started up that line of conversation with his young wife, who was usually chasing after their toddler, she gave him a bug-eyed look and stormed off.

It was over. The hot, sick, feverish feeling rapidly dissipated. He sighed, almost crying with relief. No more cramps. He was done. He stared down between his thighs into the bowl. Lots of guys do. They can't help it. They want to know if they really do Crap Large or not. Well, he grinned, I sure do. He reached behind him with a practiced arm and pushed down on the handle to flush his triumph away. Nothing happened.

Frowning, he reached behind himself again and pushed. Still nothing. Sighing, he arose. He turned around. His pants remained around his ankles. He reached the handle and firmly pushed. Again, nothing. He checked the water shutoff valve. It was in the ON position. He pulled his trousers up and shuffled to the kitchen to turn on the tap. The water flowed. But the toilet wouldn't flush.

He was running out of daylight in a house with no electricity, and he had taken a monster dump the size of a Greyhound bus in a toilet that wouldn’t flush. Great. What do I do now? He wondered. He had to get rid of the poop somehow. The house was empty and he didn’t have any tools but those of his trade. Then he saw his paint sticks.

His mind rebelled until he thought that if poop was discovered the lady would know he did it and he didn't want to get fired.

He grabbed a fistful of paint sticks and ran into the toilet. He began using them as poop shovels. He hacked his mammoth intestinal extrusion into more easily carried chunks. Yes, he poked his own poo with a stick. Paint sticks.

He then ran as quickly as he dared through the house. Once out the door, he dashed over to the wooded area and chucked each poop mini-sausage deep into the trees. He heard each piece land softly in the underbrush.

It took him 30 minutes but he cleared out the toilet. He wrapped the poop sticks in scrap paper from his truck. He would throw them into a dumpster on the way home. He finished the remainder of his work in record time, doing the best he could she would be unable to find fault in his craftsmanship.

She never complained. His own backside did, however, later that evening.

Much to his chagrin, when he finally sat down, he felt a scratchy , gritty discomfort of another sort. He remembered he had been so busy cleaning up the toilet that he had forgotten to do the same for himself.