If you don’t read Dooce, well, you’re just missing out on the finer things in your life:
Hello, Internet. My name is Heather and my website is the number one search result for “poop in my ass.” Life doesn’t get much better than that.
And then there’s this fine entry:
I guess C. was at work the day after traveling for a few days, and he found himself IN THE COMPANY BATHROOM (I can hardly type these words without my whole bowel system clinching up), and The Big Bad Motherfucking Poop hit him. He was going to have to pass The Big Bad Motherfucking Poop at work because it was coming and nothing could stop it. For those of you who have been really constipated you know which poop I’m talking about. It’s the one that you can’t physically pass because it’s so hard and large and GRANITE-LIKE IN TEXTURE that the law of physics says, “This is too big to fit out your butt.” But The Big Bad Motherfucking Poop disregards the laws of nature. It defies nature, and it must be passed because it says so.
So C. is sitting on the toilet, his pants around his ankles, and The Big Bad Motherfucking Poop is making it’s way out his butt even though Object A is too big to fit through Object B. And he is in pain, a lot of pain, the pain of a woman feeling the head of her baby crowning through the birth canal. The pain is almost indescribable, and as he is telling me this story I want to hold his hand and assure him that everything is going to be okay because I HAVE FELT THAT PAIN. Pain, oh pain. The world is going to end PAIN.
Go read Dooce now – you won’t regret it.