1115.org

Even though I didn’t post last week to make way for your (and our) Guilty Pleasures, I feel like I have been monopolizing this hot topic so this Tuesday I have called in a special guest. Today I will be interviewing Jamie’s fianc�, SS.

Poopy McGee: Sam, thanks for coming by.
Sam S: Pleasure to be here.

PM: So, is it true? I hear you have an illustrious pooping past.
SS: Some might say that, yes.

PM: Is it true you’ve traveled to foreign countries and not pooped for days?
SS: Actually, Ms. McGee, I think you have your info back-ass-wards. It was in Israel that I found myself on the toilet 7 to 9 times a day! It got to the point where I couldn’t leave the house for fear that I’d have to go en route.

PM: Did this last the entire time you were overseas?
SS: Uhh, yes.

PM: This must have made for some difficult travel. Was it something you were eating?
SS: It was everything that I was eating. From hummus to Turkish Salad to the odd lamb schwarma I ate–all to fill the void in vain.

PM: Were your traveling companions sensitive to your troubles?
SS: Yes and no. At the first gaseous emission I was subject to much ridicule. Eventually though, it became clear that action needed to be taken. By the end of my 5-month stay my friends understood that this was no laughing matter.

PM: I imagine this condition caused some pretty interesting travel stories, no?
SS: One in particular comes to mind. . . Friends of mine threw a rave in the desert near Masada. There’s nothing out there but sand. I was pretty drunk and it was close to 4 am, and on came that familiar feeling. For some reason, I just couldn’t go in the dunes. Despite my penchant for pooping in a pinch, I’ve never gone in the great wide open. So, with the party winding down, the four of us trooped up toward the youth hostel at the base of the mountain. When we got there, my bowels gurgling, we learned that there were no public bathrooms–or if there were, they were strategically hidden from desert nomads like us. Determined, we hunted through the complex, and eventually found an open room. Some youth group hikers had left their door unlocked. Leaving a friend to stand watch, I bolted into the bathroom, found a magazine, and had at it. I was in there for about 20 minutes, my friend hollering at me intermittently.

PM: Are you saying you committed breaking and entering in a foreign country just to poop?
SS: I’ve done it here in the States, too.

PM: Do tell!
SS: It so happens that the same friend who stood watch at Masada was with me one summer evening, driving on the Long Island Expressway. Though I’d been back home for some time, the unwanted urge to purge still cropped up every now and again. It got me that night, right there in Nassau County. Seeing a house with ample tree coverage, we stopped and I hopped out. But again, the great outdoors wasn’t working for me. My friend and I noticed that there were some work vehicles parked in the driveway, and that there were no lights on in the house despite the evening hour. There were heaps of dirt in the backyard, and we could see empty rooms through the windows. On a (desperate) hunch, we tried the side door, and gained entry. Sure enough, the house was under repair and no one was around. I found a working toilet, and let loose.

PM: So, is it fair to say you’ve created a new status of crime: Breaking, Entering and Evacuating!
SS: I suppose you could say that.

PM: Have you ever been caught?
SS: Thankfully, no.

PM:If you had been caught, do you think you could plead your case? I mean, you didn’t STEAL anything? Did you. . .?
SS: Nothing but some TP and that fresh pine forest scent. What would you say upon coming across a stranger in your commode with his pants around his ankles?

PM: Thanks so much for coming by. I’m not sure I could ever trust you alone in my apartment, but actually, I suspect you only clog toilets in houses of people you DON’T know! Good Day!