The Log Blog

We all do it. Let's start talking about it.

Month: April, 2014

Poopy Expectations

A good meal the night before and two cups of coffee that morning had greased my internal skids, and the heater was on full blast. I had a moment of peace, and I knew just how I would spend my time. I made my way to the toilet and knew just how this should go. The conditions were perfect and I was planning on perfect results. All seemed to be on track to empty my bowels in the best possible way. As I sat there, however, I realized that the experience was not up to par. Things just weren’t going as I had planned. It was taking too long and the end wasn’t in sight. This one just wasn’t clean. As disappointed as I was, I knew that I needed to wipe my butt and get out. Disappointment pervaded the air as thickly as the stench flowing from the toilet. Miserable, I washed my hands and left. What should have been a good experience leaving me refreshed and clean for the rest of the day left me only feeling dirty and let down. These poops happen more often than I’d care to admit. Maybe someday someone will write a post describing the physics of a good poop… [SPOILER ALERT: that post can be found here!]
-Daffy Dung



Humorous Pictures

When World’s Collide

 I like science. I like facts and all things pertaining to facts.  But I’m not a huge fan of doing research, so I’ve come up with this phenomenon called emotio-fictio-research.  It’s a made up term (by me) where I assume that how I feel about something is actually how it is.  In other words, I sit and decide how something is, and you cannot refute me over not using proper research tactics because I’m not claiming that it is real (that’s the “fictio” part).  Anyways, I’ve always wondered what poop is thinking. I feel like there is a poop community that is comprised of all our little poops. And when the poops get flushed it is like their death, and they become reunited with their poop friends and family.

 Think this is too outlandish? Think again.  People starts with “p”, poop starts with “p”.  People have body odor, poops have body odor.  People are born out large fleshy holes, poops are born out of large fleshy holes.  People cry when being born, poops cry when being born (we call it farting).  When poop is born, nobody wants to touch it but everyone has to look at it, just like people.  You see, people and poop aren’t all that different.

 It only stands to reason that poops are more use than we give them credit for.  Some are long, some are short, some are fat, some are skinny, and all of them fall somewhere in between.  What about the runny ones?  Those are miscarriages, and out of respect for poop, we won’t discuss them further.

  I really can’t wait for the day when we can bridge the communication barrier between people and their poops.  I would be a huge medical advancement because poop could evaluate our inner workings for us and tell us what might be at risk of going out.  Imagine a poop coming out and saying “bro, lay off the nexium, you have no stomach lining left.” Or “dude, those blue cap’n crunches are the truth, they’re gonna call me smurf daddy in poop heaven.”  The possibilities are limitless.  But until that day, take it sleazy.

-Harold “Stinky” Dickenson


“P” is for the Place I Poop, which is the Porcelain throne.

“O” is for the Only One, I like to poop alone.

“O” again is for the Orifice Out of which my poop will fall.

“P” at last is for a Plea: believe my tale, tall.

For once there was an honest man who dreamed a dream terrific, but if he followed his dream for long, his life would be horrific. His dream was large, this dream he dreamt, though not a common one. To sail a barge, he did lament, it would be very fun. But this young man had a condition which caused him endless trouble. Though not yet known, he soon would find he’d need a personal bubble. That awful stench his body creates the longer he waits to drop the weights made him bait on the freight; it was his fate to never find a mate. But wait! For all hope has not vanished, he will not from the freight be banished. Destiny will favor him yet, with one he had not yet met. And just when his life was looking so grim and it seemed that he soon would despair, as if on a whim he went out for fresh air. Up on the bow he stood, gazing around, and there was a girl standing close on the ground. This girl was not ordinary, no, she never would be. This girl was impaired, but yes, she could see. Her nose did not work, could not from her birth, but her eyes did meet his, and that had great worth. For they had been blessed that day to fall deep in love, a proclamation set down upon them from above. And with the locking of eyes came the locking of hearts, two that now would never be apart. So our protagonist took a step back and prepared for the jump. He took the long leap to land with a thump. The jump was mighty; he used all of his force, and used every muscle, abdomen included, of course. But this time this man’s struggle didn’t bother at all. Though the stench was still there, the lady it did not appall. The struggle to find a toilet may never leave, but the quest for a friend is complete indeed. She is his and he is hers, a match made forever, and this endures. No smells will break them; no odors shake them; no reeks mistake them; no scents will take them. So let this to you be a lesson first, that a terrible stench may not be the worst. Though your bowels are not proper, don’t give up trying. There’s always a hope, and I am not lying.

-Lucky Logger

Time For Poetry


A Peace of Poop

Today, I journeyed across the campus of my small town Kansas college in search of a place to poop. Every pooping experience is unique and deserves to be carefully considered. Today, I wanted a place where I could be alone and de-stress as I relieved my colon of its heavy burden. Most bathrooms on campus have several stalls and urinals. Even in the least frequented bathrooms, there was a chance that my peaceful time alone would be interrupted and ruined. There was only one safe choice: The Mary Jane Regier. This thousand-year-old, creepy, three story building is known for its solitude. Students only venture into it when they must. The only bathrooms in the building are located on the very top floor in the furthest corner back. I eagerly climbed the stairs of this musty old building (but not too quickly… the dump was brewing nicely and was ready to come out on command). Reaching the top floor, I stopped and looked down the long corridor standing between me and the bathroom. This building’s antique quality reminded me of my great Grandma Mabel’s quaint little home in South Dakota. As I walked quietly down the hallway, peering into each empty, door-less room, I half expected to find my Great Grandmother siting there knitting me a scarf. The shag carpets bordering each room sent my mind back to the days spent baking thumb-print cookies and chasing fire-flies at Grandma’s house.  When I reached the bathroom door I remembered why I was there and was more prepared than ever. The MJR bathroom is small but perfectly secluded; one toilet, one sink, and no chance of any unwanted guests. At last, I had reached my throne and I sat down, leaving my troubles behind. The toilet is always a great place for me to catch up with life. I took my phone out and began responding to forgotten text-messages. When that was complete, I decided to simply enjoy the moment. It was a poop the required little strain or effort on my end. I simply exhaled, flexed my stomach, winced my face, and let it flow. With the escape of the poop came the escape of every worry I had, every stressor in my life, and every thought of insignificance. I felt truly human. Wiping was clean and easy: two crumpled up sheets of toilet paper took care of everything. A poop that peaceful will not soon be forgotten. It was not extravagant, not showy, and not forceful. It was simple. I cherish the moments when I can poop in peace.

-R.J. Crapper