So here is the terror of the veterinary corps of San Francisco. Did you ever?
Who’s the babiest baby in Babytown?
I have no idea what has brought it to mind, but recently I’ve been reminded that one of the worst things about the untimely passing of my dear friend Magda is the loss of the jokes he and I used to share about pooping. One of us would return from a trip to the restroom and announce in an exaggeratedly mock tearful voice “It was a terrible miscarriage. I think it was twins.” Or something along the lines of “The good ship S.S. Fajita has launched!” We were very popular at dinner parties. Oh, we had ’em rolling in the aisles, I tell ya. It’s rarer than you might think to have a friend you can not only make excrement jokes with but who has a history of them with you.
mrpeenee 
So very true. Miss Rheba and I are, in the sense to which you refer, poop-level pals, and it is nice. And of course the Mister and I spend lots of time on poop, what with two terriers in the house.
I fear that some day one of the neighbors – worst-case scenario, one of the building’s formidable Widows – will overhear me as a I follow along after our two little monsters on their morning walk, muttering under my breath (for some reason in a thick Eastern European accent, “Come on now, sweet ones, poop for daddy…”
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Bela Lugosi-like accents make everything better.
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word.
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Absolutely
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That there is the stuff of true love.
(which could be a post-bathroom bon mot itself, I’m sure)
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I will take your word for it.
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Had a friend who use to break into song when nature called.
“I, feel a shit coming on.”
(Chorus) “Take a shit. Take a shit.”
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I think I know that song. Hum the first bar for me.
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My maid of all work Carmen is a great comfort to me when I’m heavy with mudchild. I call her the Mudwife, someone to cling to when faced with a difficult birth and to help one endure the post natal agony that can follow the delivery of such a boulder. Applying a dab of Charlie to the area before birthing also helps as does rocking the top half of your body back and forth with the arse cheeks apart.
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I also like moaning “Oh Holy Mother of God” loudly. Especially in a public toilet.
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What would The Mistress know of scatological humour?
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Did someone say “cake?”
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Bingo.
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Shit talking girlfriends are not a dime a dozen.
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