You’ll probably regret reading this post

because it’s about poop.

And why am I writing an entire post about poop?

1) Poop is funny. Say it with me: P-o-o-o-o-o-o-p. HA! Funny!
2) It’s Sweeps Week for the BOB Awards. And nothing is proven to boost ratings faster—whether we’re talking about Teletubbies or The Rush Limbaugh Drug-Addled Serial Divorcer With Bad Hair And Unpleasant Fans Radio Show—than poop. Plus it gives me the opportunity to say something most bloggers only dream of getting to say: Vote for me! It’s as easy as pooping!
3) Poop is funny even if you don’t actually say “poop.” Example! What can Brown do for you? HA!
4) Poop issues figure into the whole lipo process more than I’d anticipated.
5) Remember: P-o-o-o-o-o-o-p! HA! Funny!


WHEW! Amid all that funny pre-poop talk, I almost forgot to get to the whole point. And, actually, there are two points to this post. So here’s the (ahem) poop:


NUMBER ONE
The night before the lipo, I did a pre-emptive poop because I figured pooping after the surgery wouldn’t exactly be a box of kittens. (And I was right, but more on that later. If you can get that far.) And I tried again the morning of the lipo, but I didn’t have to go.

So I got to the hospital, got checked in, got into my gown and my extra-fancy stick-on underpants, got the IV thing stuck in the back of my hand—and as they were walking me to the operation room, I suddenly kinda felt like I had to go. But it was too late.

So I climbed on the table, got knocked unconscious, underwent The Change, and woke up all groggy and begirdled in the recovery room. And I mysteriously didn’t have to poop anymore.

Which was the least of my worries … until I got up to get dressed and I found a stain on the sheets where my butt had just been. And while the stain could very easily have been I-just-had-surgery blood, I to this day live in mortal fear that the damn spot was glowing, screaming, mocking proof that the anesthesia had turned me into a human soft-serve ice cream dispenser and I pooped on everything and everyone in the operating room the whole time I was being vacuumed.

(I can just hear it: “Nurse, hand me the scalpel … cotton swab … suction thingie … whoa, gross! Hand me the ice cream cone … STAT!”)

What makes it worse (if you can imagine this story getting worse) is the fact that I didn’t poop for a full two days after the surgery. Which just proves to me that I emptied the ol’ tank all over the doctor’s Ferragamos when all he thought he was in for were a few splashes of hip goo. I’m so embarrassed I could just shit.


NUMBER TWO (Ha! More poop humor!)
Pooping in a girdle is harder than I thought. The next time you’re parked on the throne, pay attention to what you naturally do with your body: You slouch forward (presumably to pull your curtains apart and aim your cannon at the hole in the bottom of the toilet).

Now imagine doing that in a corset. Right. It doesn’t work. You have to sit as straight and tall as (ahem) Gary Bauer. What’s more, you have to keep your feet directly under your torso (on either side of the bowl) so you don’t topple backward into the tank. Which means you have to take your pants completely off. Just to poop. (Remember: You pooped all over an entire medical team just a few days earlier. The indignities don’t end!)

And then consider this: If every muscle in your midsection is angrily recovering from a li-pokefest (lipo-kefest? is this attempt at portmanteau even funny?) … if every muscle in your midsection is further weakened by a corset that grips tighter than Paris Hilton with a school bus in her vagina … then you don’t have a lot of firepower for squeezing out your puppies, if you know what I mean.

And that’s when poop abortion starts looking like an ethical option—Vatican be damned! (Vatican be damned anyway, but that’s a topic for a different post about poop.)

WHEW. So that’s all I have to say on this topic for the day. (Lucky you.) Except for this: Vote for me! It’s as easy as pooping!