The lovely Anne Hathaway, my future second wife(after I dump Natalie Portman)
First off, if you're anything like me, you're tall, intelligent, breathtakingly handsome, and getting a bit tired of reverse-cowgirl with Anne Hathaway. But even if that's not a perfect match, we can at least agree on one thing: Shitting at work is great.
I tend to map out my every morning/early afternoon around the inevitable need to empty my bowels of the Bud-and-Jim-Beam-soaked T-bone I ingested the prior night. Usually this is a fairly simple process: Arrive at work (20 minutes late), acquire coffee, ignore email, check Mets blogs for the latest rectum punch Omar Minaya has inflicted upon me, squeeze in some actual work, plan out my loaf-pinch.
Some mornings, the intestinal stirrings start early. At that point, I immediately scour my Google Reader for articles of sufficient length to sustain my imminent brown release. Some of the sites that provide me with this material can be found in Where's Luke's left sidebar (heh, Side Bar once got feline AIDS) -- Joe Posnanski (baseball), man-crush of mine Nate Silver (politics), and one other fine gentleman writer of the Internet, whom I'd like to introduce today.
His name is Drew Magary, though he was known for some time only as Big Daddy Drew. That was his pseudonym as a lowly Deadspin commenter, way back in like 2005-06. Keep in mind that this was when the Internet and blogs and stuff were old enough get an erection, but still too immature to process what it meant or what it should be used for, aside from rubbing against helpless household furniture with strangely pleasing textures (corduroy!).
These days, Drew writes regularly for several places, including Kissing Suzy Kolber (which he co-founded), a reputable site like NBC, an equally reputable site like Penthouse, and, of course, Deadspin. Yes, like Vader said to Obi-Wan, the commenter has become the writer (you can dream too, anonymous Where's Luke commenter jerkoff). He has also written a goddamn fantastic book (which I own) called "Men With Balls," which serves as a guidebook for the professional athlete and contains a brilliant dedication page:
"To my mom and dad...who taught me not to say inappropriate things. Which is why I wrote them all down instead."Anyway, let's get back to shitting. One thing Drew writes rather frequently about is that very topic. We've written about it here from time to time, but modesty demands I admit that our offerings are Salieri to Drew's Mozart.
Without further ado, allow me to present a piece written not by Drew, but by one of his readers, which Drew was gracious enough to pass along to all of us. He calls it "Look Who's Pooping":
"My kid was about 1 or 1 1/2 when he started going through a poop phase. He was obsessed with poop. He would insist on looking at a shitty diaper after he destroyed it, with a "yeah that's right, say my name, bitch!" look on his face. He would talk about it all the time in public ("Daddy I have a HUGE LOAD in my pants"). He would barge into the bathroom when I was dropping anchor and insist on taking a look at my craftwork. He even went through a period where he would stick his finger in his ass and then put it in his mouth and say "it's yummy" (by the way this was super fucked up and scarred me for life).So one day, just after breakfast, he drops a load and my wife goes to change him. She lays him back on the changing table, takes his shitty diaper off, wraps it up, and turns to put it in the diaper genie. She looks away and then turns back, leaning over him to coo or sing or make goo goo noises or whatever chicks do. What she did not realize was that the little fecophile had stuck his hand down into his ass while she was looking away and now had what could best be described as a shit mitten. So she is singing away and he reaches up and fish hooks her with the shit mitten. Just jams his hand in her mouth and yanks down on her jaw, scraping poo off his hand with her teeth (ever eat an artichoke?). It took a second or two for her to realize he had shit all over his hands...and that she, therefore, now had a mouthful of baby shit. She gagged and was so disgusted that she promptly VOMITED ON THE BABY and started crying hysterically, which of course made the baby start crying. I heard the commotion and by the time I walked in, they were both screaming and crying, covered in regurgitated Special K and poo. My wife ran over to the bathroom and I actually saw her SPIT POO in the sink (definitely NOT a turn on). Meanwhile, the baby quickly went from crying to laughing, looks up at me innocently and says "Daddy, I'm POOOPY!" Roger that."
Hey Side Bar and Chuck, is that what having a kid is like? Because if so, I'm never letting Mrs. Side Bar or Mrs. Chuck kiss me hello ever again.
