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The Anal Anthology

Sit down and relax and get buckled in

I want to share what a journey it’s been

You’ll see very soon, I’m accident prone

Forever seeking the porcelain throne

Blessed is my life and that is a fact

Only defect is my digestive tract

These stories I tell are rather heinous

‘Fore the protagonist is my anus


It was 2nd and 4 and I looked to the sideline to get the play call, but the only thing on my mind was squeezing my ass cheeks together. Hurry up offenses don’t leave time for bathroom breaks. Believe it or not, stopping momentum so your receiver keeps his pants dry isn’t part of the game plan. So there I was. Spikes in the turf listening to our quarterback go through the play call while I was dealing with the comedic combo of a big breakfast and bad genetics.

But before I get too ahead of myself and knock a point or 2 off my rating on the datability scale, I should probably give a little context; let’s say paint a picture before I dump brown all over it to dull the colors. When I was 13 I noticed a few drops of blood in the toilet. As if a pimply faced, horny teenager doesn’t have enough to worry about, those few drops turned into a bit of a cherry slurpy as I was diagnosed with ulcerative colitis. Feel free to google it but the spark notes are basically bleeding, stomach cramps, and the bowel control of a nursing home resident.


I made it through high school and the first couple years of college before things started getting a little interesting. My UC was going from bad to worse by the end of sophomore year; and as it turns out instant ramen and natty lights aren’t the best remedy for an upset tummy. After Vogue asked the doc to stick a lubed up camera in my stink hole, they told me they were running out of medications to stop the symptoms. This all culminated in a big decision a week before training camp my junior year. Ignoring the doctors’ advice, I hopped on a plane to St. Louis and decided to throw on the pads.


Now I didn’t go wheels up without thinking things through a bit. Next to all the workout shirts and douchey frat frocket tees, I had a couple boxes of depends in my suitcase. For the blissfully ignorant, depends are what we incontinent folk call adult diapers. Even if you’re not an athlete, I’m guessing you can imagine that tossing on a diaper under the thigh pads might draw some weird looks in the locker room. At this point, there was about 45 second delay from when I felt the urge to when the pipes were flowing, bathroom or not; so the toddler aesthetic wasn’t my primary concern.


Unfortunately for me the locker room bathrooms were about a minute and a half from the field. My only saving grace was a lone porta potty behind the endzone. Without fail, at least once every practice I’d back away from a drill and take off on a sprint to my poorly ventilated throne. By the end of training camp I’m sure it had a permanent mark from my sweaty ass. But, against all odds, my skid mark compression shorts and I made it to the first game.

I’d suited up for many football games in my life but had never had butt implants in the form of absorbent lingerie. I didn’t check my backside in the mirror but there’s a decent chance I looked like a middle-aged woman with a visible panty line. But the locker room testosterone, pump-up music and eye black made it feel like just another game. I made sure to pop a squat before heading out to the field and prayed to my atheist Jesus that a proverbial cork might find its way into my digestive tract for the next couple hours.


Not that you care about the game but it was a close one, which meant no room for mistakes. So now that you have all the context, we can go back to the most uneventful football play that I’ll never forget. 2nd and 4 and the quarterback is telling us sheep which way to run. And that was when someone dropped the Mentos in the coke and I was passed the point of no return. I took to the everglades and got the swampiest ass out there. My 1st down running form transformed into a waddle as I went out to block. At this point, if there had been a fumble and I jumped in the pile I think the refs would’ve came up with a new 15 yard penalty for inhumane conduct.


For the first time in my playing career I was thrilled we didn’t get a first down. Once I got to the sideline I started prepping for Covid and stayed 6 feet apart from everyone else on the team. Needless to say I told the coach that unless he needed some tear gas in the trenches I was spending the rest of the game on the sideline. Now I won’t bore you with the how the game went but believe me when I say our equipment manager didn’t get paid enough that season. Pour one out for Mike.


0 catches, 0 yards and 1 soiled uniform was my stat line for the first and last game of my season. But without football I was still a college student who needed to stay on track to graduate. You might be shocked when I tell you that 5 foot 10 and slow doesn’t get you on an NFL field in anything but pinstripes.


As it was the start of my 3rd year, I knew where the lecture halls, cafeterias, and libraries were around campus. But, as it turns out, I didn’t know where enough bathrooms were; and when you’re going 15 times a day it’s kind of important information to have. It only took a couple dirty diapers, though, for me to have a detailed mental map of every bathroom I might pass on my walk from one class to the next. I was like a savant except instead of math equations filling my head it was an endless stream of telling myself where the nearing porcelain bank was. If you’d given me a blank map of campus at the end of the semester and I could’ve marked all of the bathrooms and told you which had the softest toilet paper.

Don’t feel too bad for me though. Nothing strengthens friendships like dozens of self-deprecating stories that are all self-defecating. And if you couldn’t tell by now I’ve never been labeled as shy, so my group chats were filled with a lot of truth and a bunch of crap. I wasn’t getting any action that semester but I could still tell people all of the times I shot a load prematurely. If I was having sex that semester, it would’ve been the optimal time for an unplanned pregnancy because the newborn and I could’ve taken advantage of 2 for 1 sales on diapers. Think about the savings.


Celibacy aside, I began looking for alternative ways to treat my UC. I cut out meat, dairy, sugar, gluten, and basically anything worth tasting. I suppose it was karma for all of the shit I gave to my friends who were vegan, vegetarian or had allergies. Now I was a scrawny Popeye who couldn’t get an erection let alone get jacked after eating my spinach, but we’ll get to that. Brown-nosing PETA with my diet was just part of my alternative treatment, though. I decided being a human voodoo doll couldn’t hurt so I started doing acupuncture. Even though I was a little nervous for my first session I’ll resist the urge to make a pins and needles joke.


I was a few sessions in and honestly kind of enjoying the mini bee stings. I’m not a masochist or anything but I was embracing the technique developed on the other side of the Pacific. So I’m laying down listening to the relaxing music as the practitioner was just about done turning me into an awkward porcupine. It wasn’t too tough to find the flabby white dude in the needle stack. Then all of a sudden, someone flipped a switch to turn on the plumbing and the relaxation gave way to an anal battle with a prairie dog.


The acupuncturist must’ve seen the look in my eyes because before I could get the words out she reached down to undue her human crochet work. It’s not exactly something you want rushed but circumstances called for speedy work. Just as the last needle came out I felt the flood gates start to open. I started my Lamar Jackson poop cramp run down the hall to get to the facilities, and as a reached for the door handle I felt a warm trickle down my leg like a cherry fudgesicle melting outside on a hot day. Unfortunately my shartsicle didn’t have the milk chocolate aroma and the diaper could barely contain the party in my pants. So I waddled into the stall and started my handiwork.


At this point, I had the diaper change down like 42 year old parents on their accident of a 4th kid. This was probably my 25th time testing just how depends-able they were, so my frequent flyer miles on the poop plane were in first class territory. And if you’re wondering, yes they let me finish the appointment. 5 star rating on Yelp.


The next couple months passed with many more underwear casualties and some creative diarrheal deposit zones. Unfortunately Webster told me to fuck off when I tried to include parking lots, trash cans, bushes, and stairwells in the dictionary definition of bathrooms. There was a point when 2 days in a row of continence was a rarity. But guess who people call first now when they shit their pants? Shit yourself once and you’ll laugh for a day; tell lots of people about it and you’ll laugh for the rest of your life. And if you’re wondering, soiling your drawers isn’t like the Lincoln assassination; you don’t have to wait 100 years before you can start making jokes about it.


Eventually everyone grows up and puts their big boy pants on, and I’m no exception. I finally got re-potty trained enough to lose the diapers, which was both liberating and terrifying. But now without the extra padding I was that bitch with no ass that still jiggled. If you were born before ’92 it’s a Tik Tok reference and probably not worth the google.


So a couple weeks into my newfound breezy balls, I had a final project for my business development course. 2 months of work that culminated in a big presentation to the class. I’m one of the weirdos who likes public speaking, so this wasn’t something that worried me. Plus, I got to dress up in my suit and tie and look like I hadn’t just stumbled out of bed for a change.


I was the opening presenter for our group and knew my shit (don’t say it) so I was ready to get the thing over with. The slides were up on the screen and after introducing our group I went through all of my material and didn’t even throw in any “likes” or “ums.” See normally when you finish your part of the presentation you can finally relax. Only problem was my whole body decided to relax.


So now we’re 5 minutes into a 20 minute presentation and I’m squeezing my ass like I’m in an 80s workout video telling people to “feel the burn.” All of a sudden my tie felt way too tight and the fanciest outfit I owned was in serious jeopardy. I couldn’t tell you a single word the rest of my group said the rest of the presentation, but as soon as the last girl finished her conclusion slide I snapped back into it. I was so proud that I’d held my platelet-filled mud pie in check for 20 minutes when a few months earlier that would’ve been impossible. This touching moment was cut short when the slide changed to a white background with a single word: “questions?”


At this point I’m leaning against the whiteboard, which is a big no-no in presentation etiquette. But I figured that turning the front row into the splash zone might get a few more points docked off in the professionalism category. And I’m just hoping I stored up enough good karma that week to not get any questions directed my way. After the professor asked her one question, she turned to the class to see if anyone else had any. So there’s 95% of us who interpret that as shut the fuck up so we can get on with our day. But life’s never that easy because the other 5% see it as a time to score brownie points with the teacher while simultaneously trying to ask a question that’s going to make the presenters look bad.

Sure enough this asshole raises his hand in the most aggressive and smug way possible. Luckily another group member fielded the question so I could continue my mental pep talk to my pooper. She finished her explanation and as soon as I heard the applause from the class I b-lined it to the door. I ran as fast as I could dodging people in the hallway, around the corner, and down the stairs to the nearest bathroom, which of course I knew without a thought.


I swear my anus is a tease because right when I thought I was going to make it, I started squirting like I got my first Magic Wand. I unlatched my belt and dropped my pants as I aimed my sinking sphincter towards the toilet. It was a messy descent but luckily most of it got trapped in my boxers and black doesn’t show stains. My jacket sleeve got a little turd taste as I was disrobing, but now I just remember to wipe my face with the other one when I wear it. Don’t worry, though, since I didn’t impersonate Shamu in the classroom I didn’t cost the group the A.


Dropping yellow, dropping brown

Professional pooper, The best one in town

Green eggs, green ham wrote the great Dr. Seuss

Logs like the Lorax, I’m dropping a deuce


By the end of the semester I decided I’d taken my fair share of U.S. poops, so I decided to spend the next 5 months taking classes in Madrid. I figured as long as I knew how to translate “where’s the shitter?” I’d be okay wherever I was. As it turns out, free public restrooms aren’t a thing in Spain and I was pretty sure the cops wouldn’t take kindly to a dumbass gringo poppin a squat within 5 miles of a paella. And to make things more interesting, I was living with a host family in a small apartment: 7 people, 1 bathroom. Luckily they had more than one cup, so we avoided that one.


My host mom’s two grown sons lived with us, and one of them had a girlfriend. Perfectly nice woman, but without fail she spent 45 to 60 minutes in the bathroom every night. Which meant I was stuck in my room trying to jedi mind trick myself to not make my version of Kevin’s famous chili. Normally I prefer some good music and a couple drinks before making a fool of myself on the dancefloor, but that semester I did more many poop dances in my room waiting while the toilet was ocupado. There had been a little more improvement since my suit soiling adventure, but I was definitely not able to maintain a sealed up sphincter for an hour.


So for you critical thinkers out there you know this math isn’t adding up. With Rupunzel brushing her hair for an hour, I was guaranteed to become Stinkerbell while I was trapped in my room. Now I wasn’t about to make my 73 year old host mom turn into Mr. Clean and scrub poop soup out of my lulu lemon underwear (100% worth the cost btw). Talk about a bad first impression.


I was doing some homework in my room after dinner on the 3rd night when the urge hit. I put forth an admirable effort but as sure as OJ is guilty, I wasn’t going to last another minute. Luckily I had gone to the store earlier that day to buy some sangria, so I grabbed the plastic grocery bag and dropped my pants. Unfortunately Youtube didn’t have any helpful bag-shitting tutorials, so I went in like a blind man swiping on Tinder. I did get a little blood on the floor but thank god my room wasn’t carpeted. So I tied up the bag and pulled my pants back over my sticky cheeks. I’m not sure about the cultural customs of other European nations, but I can tell you that it’s not common in Spain to carry your own feces around the apartment. Even if it was I couldn’t exactly just toss the bag in the trash and blame it on the large skunk population in downtown Madrid.


As luck would have it, though, I did have a balcony. I know what you’re thinking. No, I didn’t toss the fucker down to the street. I have class; well as much as you can have after defecating in a plastic bag. So I put the excrement on the balcony and tossed it in the dumpster in the morning. Naturally, I stocked up on grocery bags, toilet paper, and Febreze and haven’t taken private bathrooms for granted since.


None of this stopped me from enjoying the night life in Madrid, which made our college parties look like an afternoon at grandma’s. I had already been rejected by so many girls in my life that it was a good change of pace to hear it in Spanish for a change. But nothing is more reminiscent of my time abroad than drunkenly stumbling home at 3 AM in need of bathroom while getting continuously catcalled by prostitutes; only to wake up the next morning and having my elderly host mom ask me why I came back home so early. Turns out I just can’t hang with the Spaniards.


I’ve been under the knife, stitched up and sewn

As they took out my catheter I let out a moan

Still 2 months I have, with a pain in my heart

I’m longing, I’m waiting. Oh please let me fart

But alas here I sit, passing mucus and blood

Nearing the day when I look down and see mud


If I told you all the times I opened my anus somewhere other than a toilet, I’d still be writing. So let’s skip ahead a couple years. After a long battle with UC, trying every medication possible and down to a diet of rice, potatoes, and spinach, it was time for surgery. Again to save you from asking Siri, the 1st surgery they took out my large intestine and put in a ileostomy bag; the 2nd they reconnected the tubing; and the third they removed the bag. For those of you who don’t know, an ileostomy bag is a pretentious way of referring to a stick-on pouch that fills up with shit from your exposed small intestine. After spending more time on a toilet in a few years than some do in 30, it was both refreshing and strange to go 5 months without pooping. I was a little tempted to grab some lube and check my prostate just to give my anus a little action.


It’s not hard to think through a lot of things that become a little more challenging when your digestive tract is playing a permanent game of peek-a-boo. Something I didn’t really think about beforehand, though, was showering. I got discharged from the hospital a couple days after my first surgery and the nurse told me to remove the bag before showering and put on a new one afterwards. Any normal person either goes to the bathroom before a shower if they have to or waits until the urge hits after the shower. While you can choose to clench or loosen your anus, there is no voluntary contractions in your small intestine. This meant that as I was washing away the hospital residue from my body, my internal playdough factory decided it was time to produce some turd flavor tootsie rolls. It was like those stupid trick candles on a birthday cake; no matter how many times I scrubbed, I’d look down and there was more poop on my leg. Don’t let the advertisements fool you, though; I could definitely believe it wasn’t butter.


I’m sure you’ve heard not to cheap out on condoms, but let me add poop bags to the list. In another brilliant move, I ordered the cheapest ones I could find on Amazon and didn’t stop to think that insurance would cover the cost. Naturally, this meant some pretty interesting mid-day smells when the refuse receptacles would inevitably leak. It goes without saying that Covid has caused many issues in the world; but one silver lining is that it saved me from some very awkward work meetings. There were a number of times I had to finish up a call with a not-so-happy trail of shit on my belly. I’m pretty quick on my feet but I’m not sure I would’ve found the right words to explain the porta-potty perfume to my boss. Also, I’m a Browns fan but after some unintentional experience I still don’t get the Cleveland Steamer appeal; I guess OBJ is a better receiver than me in more ways than I thought. After 4 or 5 mornings of waking up to a leaking bag, it was time for a change. At 23 I wasn’t in the mood for self-made mud pies or poopy finger painting to start my morning. So I ordered some better bags and thought that’d be the end of my colon chronicles.


A month or so after my first surgery I was playing pickleball with my family. Sweat would cause the bag to get a little lose and I wanted to avoid creating a skid mark slip-n-slide on the court. In a stroke of genius I decided to tightly wrap duct tape around my stomach instead of using the compression belt specifically made for ostomies. I had no issues during pickleball, making it through without any leaks. What I didn’t realize at the time, though, was that the tape created a lot of pressure above my small intestine, which was normally just an inch out of my body like it was trying to play a painful game of whack-a-mole.


I was living with my mom, as every 23 year old dreams of; but I had the house to myself for the night, so I took the opportunity to invite over some company who let’s say was a bit older than me. Some people might see a feces filled fanny pack as a reason to stop dating, but the previous few years had taught me to embrace unique circumstances. I got home and headed into the bathroom to shower, which required me to first take off my bag. As I peeled off my miniature porta-potty I saw that my one-inch wonder had turned into a 7 inch snake, which was a major improvement for me. I was standing in front of my mirror looking at my intestine dangling from my the midsection of my dad bod like a porn star doppelganger. I was unsure whether I should call an ambulance for medical attention or my rabbi for an impromptu circumcision. Looking back my biggest regret was not taking a double dick pick; closest I’ll ever be to a hammerhead shark.


So at this point my date was about 25 minutes away and was looking like someone jammed a blue pill in my bell button. Concerned for both my wellbeing and hormonal happiness, I called up my sister to do some research. As it turns out, intestinal prolapsing isn’t a serious concern and just required laying on your back for a bit. But after 5 minutes of laying down in my birthday suit I was running out of time. So I started pushing my intestine back in like a broken jack-in-the-box. Luckily there’s not nerve endings on intestines, so I could stuff my pseudo shlong back in pain free. I managed to get ready in the nick of time and spiked up my hair a couple of minutes before the doorbell rang.

I won’t bore you with the conversational details but one thing led to another and I found myself anthropomorphizing a saddle. As the movement intensified, my intestine started inching back out. Before I knew it, I could feel it flopping around the bag like a fish out of water. Nerve endings or not, having Pinocchio’s nose coming out of a hole in your stomach doesn’t feel great. So after a brief internal debate I decided to do what many girls had done for me. I channeled my best When Harry Met Sally and faked an orgasm. After some half-assed cuddling I had the house to myself and spent the rest watching Netflix on my back, waiting for gravity to bring back my need to overcompensate. And for those of you wondering, no I didn’t get another date.


The break is over, spirit born anew

Many moons without a natural poo

But here I sit, upon the sacred stool

Savor the shit: ‘tis my new golden rule

A long journey it’s been; no sweet relief

No gas was flowin, not even a queef

Normal lads do fear, the untimely clog

But I unleash mush, not a solid log

Cheeks spread wide open, I can’t help but cheer

The star of the show is no doubt my rear

These turns of phrase might look like I’m trollin’

But cut me some slack. I lack a colon

You might think my bowels an evil curse

Pity me not. Gonna hit on my nurse


After 5 months of wearing a fecal front pack, the doc stitched me up for the 3rd time and I was back in one piece. If you’ve made it this far I’d suggest you get a hobby of some sort because reading about my shit isn’t going to get you very far. As my difficulties in life faded, the weight was lifted from my stomach rather than my shoulder. I’ll spare you the sentimental bullshit about how much I’ve learned along the way so I don’t close this out with any condescension. This was meant for laughter and not learning so I’ll keep it that way. My only hope is that whether it’s in a few weeks or a few years, whenever you shit yourself I’ll be the first one you call.




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