Time to invoke the 25th Amendment.
Hello, yeah, it’s been a while. Not much, how ’bout you?
There really is no reason. In fact, this particular post is over due. I had blog backup and no plunger.
For my first post back after a long break, you know I’m goin’ there. But that is why you came, isn’t it?
Yup. I read an article. Several articles actually. My bad.
This one provides important information to the travelers among us.
I will summarize for you, because I have experience in this matter.
The best time to poop on a plane is right after the seat belt light goes off or when the drinks cart comes. The first is usually pretty early in the flight, so really, you should have taken care of that before you got on the plane. Unless you’re me — and then you did it then, too.
Second, is a story about a man with whom I should have had children. We could certainly reach a happy medium:
Lastly, the third story, required by the peculiarities of comedy writing, is something I am shaking my head about, well, my butt tto, because really — I should have thunk of this idea first. If ever a business model stinks of “Elyse,” well, this is it:
Yup. A business model that practically screams “ELYSE!!!” Here’s the ummmm, scoop on it.
Toronto’s new Poop Café will feature a “unique selection of desserts from around the world,” according to a Facebook post from the café’s profile. While the restaurant will serve dishes that are brown and shaped like poop (kind of like the poop emoji), not every dish will look like feces.
I for one am glad that not all of this restaurant’s dishes will look like poop. That’s important to me in the pre-poop stage of nutrient intake. I like to have a wee bit of anticipation on that score.
*My apologies to my Canadian friends. Just when you guys are basking in the glory of a delightful leader, I go and laugh at your poop cafe. Sorry. But it IS a poop-themed cafe. What did you want me to do?
Yes, I realize that it’s been a while since I granted you all the benefits of my fake medical expert advice. Sorry.
It’s just that poop news has been rather crappy lately. What’s a specialist to do?
So for this post, I’m going to go out on a ledge. Write what I don’t know. Venture into a whole ‘nuther area of specialization. I feel qualified because this area of specialty is in the same, errrr, ball park. Geographically speaking. Certainly based on adolescent conversation, anyway.
You see, I read an article recently that inspired me to post after a pretty long hiatus
Now I don’t know about you, but this particular insert isn’t one I’ve personally ever considered. Maybe I’m just weird.
To be fair to the women who have done this mind-bending medical procedure, the procedure does not involve vaginal insertion of a wasp nest that looks like this one, with buzzing wasps going in and out:
On the other hand, maybe something buzzing and going in and out is the whole idea behind the procedure. But I digress.
Actually, the procedure involves ground up wasp eggs called “galls.”
These are Oak leaf “galls” in case you want to make your own.
Galls are wasp larvae, left on the bottoms of oak leaves. They are ground up and inserted into the vagina to tighten it and to cleanse it. Okay …
As a fake medical expert, I think I can safely say that this sounds like a particularly shitty idea.
You know, it never occurred to me that there might be a need to warn women to not put wasp nests, even ground up wasp nests, into their vaginas.
Then again, I never thought it would be necessary to tell women to not vote for a man who believed he could grab their vagina because he was famous, either.
Being a fake medical expert has become a bit passe, frankly. And that expertise came after my rarely discussed time as environmental science expertise honed as a lowly paralegal/legislative & regulatory assistant/lobbyist.
So I figure I’m ready for a new challenge. And just in time for World IBD Day, I’m takin’ on physics!
The Physics of Poop, of course. And I think you will agree that I do have the expertise. And the, ummm, credentials. And I don’t have to go far for sample collection.
You see, there’s an article I read. (Of course there’s an article.)
You know it’s a good article, because this is the photo that accompanies the article:
The authors, David Hu and Patricia Yang, studied poop every which way but Sunday. Well, maybe Sunday, too. Because there are some chores that simply must be done 7 days a week.
They discovered that herbivores produced “floaters” and carnivores plopped “sinkers.” And apparently “stinkers” too, as tigers apparently have the stinkiest poop and panda poop is positively precious.
Bigger animals, not surprisingly, are more prodigious poopers, but interestingly, the speed of poop production is similar regardless of the size of the animal:
Assuming a bell curve distribution, 66 percent of animals take between 5 and 19 seconds to defecate. It’s a surprisingly small range, given that elephant feces have a volume of 20 liters, nearly a thousand times more than a dog’s, at 10 milliliters.
In all honesty, the attraction of the article wasn’t the significant increase in my already vast knowledge and understanding of poop.
Nope. There were two reasons.
First, it’s the fact that this article alerted me to the existence of NASA’s
I think you will admit that I should be an automatic contender.
More importantly, this article gave me something to write about to celebrate World IBD Day. And while I personally celebrate every day, you, personally can have fun with poop on World IBD Day. Don’t say I never gave you anything.
But WAIT! There’s MORE! After this post went to press, I found this article.
Golly. Studying poop has become a 24/7 commitment for me.
The art of letter writing is dead, and it makes me sad. Whenever I read history or biography, I think of the loss to mankind and to history of all of the letters we never exchange — emails aren’t the same. And even still, it is likely that only Hillary Clinton’s emails will be kept.
Greeting cards are few and far between too. I used to love to spend time searching stores for just the right one with just the right message. Today, though, good ones are hard to find, and it just never seems that I can get to one of the three stores left in the continental U.S. that sells good ones when I need one.
Thank you cards too. I once read that the key to George H.W. Bush’s success was that he always sent thank you notes. But nobody ever sends those any more.
Or so I thought. But today I go this in the mail:
A thank you card from the hospital where I let them shove tools up my butt. Inside it thanks me for letting me have them abuse my body. (Or something like that.) Not something you hear of every day.
You see, on Wednesday, I had my annual tuneup, a sigmoidoscopy, performed in the hospital so that Dr. C can check out the plumbing. They aren’t really so bad, and they give me good drugs so I’m asleep and wake up refreshed. I usually feel quite good afterwards in fact.
This time I felt even better, though. Because my doctor told me that she thinks I’m in remission! That means no active disease! Whoo-hoo. Even without a poop transplant or drinking worm larvae. Cool.
It’s all been said already. The GOP bill, TrumpDoesn’tCare, sucks. And frankly, I am unable to find the funny in the fact that the current leaders just sold us down the River Styx, on our way to hell.
I feel it personally, deeply. I honestly fear for the future of myself and everybody like me with a preexisting condition. Everybody with a chronic condition that requires expensive medicine. Mine costs $26K every six weeks. Over the 5 years of the “pool” the GOP added to the AHCA, I’ll use $1 million just by myself. Because of poop problems.
Folks keep telling me that I’m over-reacting, that this bill will never pass the Senate. And that’s true. But I have no faith that the Senate version will be much better, only different. After all, it is run by the folks who literally stole a supreme court seat. Does anybody really believe that these guys will do the right thing?
So clearly there is only one response that I have to Donald Trump and the House GOP.
If you hear about somebody doing this at the White House or on Capitol Hill, just pretend you don’t know me.
Today is Duncan’s birthday — his 3rd! He is a wonderful dog. Sweet, relatively obedient, and incredibly lovable.
But I went a bit overboard with doggie treats for this good boy this year. So I figured I’d share them with his friends at the park. In a way that would be good for the earth. In a way that positively shouts “DOG!” I made doggie goodie bags!
OK, in the stupidest way possible. I used biodegradable dog poop bags, and filled them full of delicious brown dog treats. That way, if I missed any of the morning friends Duncan and I usually walk with, I could leave one on their car.
A dog poop bag filled with brown stuff, left on a car. What could possibly go wrong?
Luckily for me, we saw his friends, and they and their parents were delighted by the goodie bags. They didn’t think me weird for