oh, i’ve got stories
June 12, 2008
Dug, you know how some people, well some of the people that keep a journal or diary at least, will rip the pages out of the journal so nobody will ever read them? Well it’s sort of like you ripped those pages out, but instead of throwing them away or shredding them or burning them, published them on the Internet. I’m really not sure what this says about you. But keep it coming.
I’m not sure what it says about me either Mark. But about 18 years ago, Kim and I lived in the apartment in Provo directly above Brad. One day, I was hanging in my apartment, making cookies or studying or something, and I somehow mistook a bit of gas for something else, and ended up with a tiny present in my underwear.
I was totally surprised and tweaked, kind of like when you see something just outrageous, say, at the grocery store, like a woman walks by you in the aisle and farts like a horse, or a large (that is, morbidly obese) man bends over and shows you about 9 inches of crack, and you turn to tell the person you’re with “Dude! Check that out!” but unfortunately, you’re alone. You know? Like that.
So I ran downstairs to tell Brad, but Brad wasn’t there, just Tasha was.
So I told her. “Hey, I just crapped my pants upstairs.” I mean, even if it’s just a nugget, it’s still technically crapping your pants, right?
Anyway. Some people have stories inside them they just have to tell. Dickens needed to tell us about Pip, Twain needed to tell us about Huck. I need to tell you about poop.
Did I mention the time I was living in Chile . . .