Brown-eyed girl.

My mother has got me thinking about bungholes. She is in her mid 60’s, and let’s just say her unholy hole has seen better days.

She ties her shoes and she farts. Phhht. She sneezes and she farts. Phhht. She walks across the room and farts. Phhht phhht phhht phhht phhht. And she doesn’t even bother to call it. Even if she didn’t hear it, I would think that she certainly she felt it. Or smelt it.

I may be mortified, but I am not surprised. It makes sense that by this age, one’s sphincter would experience some slippage. I mean, imagine the waistband on your oldest pair of underwear. I suspect that’s what happens to one’s blowhole after pushing out 21,600 poops over the course of 60 odd years.

My husband and I made the mistake of sharing a hotel room with her when we attended my cousin’s wedding. While sleeping, she farted about every 30 seconds – no exaggeration. At first, my husband and I laughed. The kind of silent, lip-biting laugh in which your body just shakes. But as the stench descended upon us like a heavy, toxic fog, it became less amusing. When she woke up the next morning, she asked, “Did I snore?” My husband replied under his breath, “Yes. Out of your ASS.”

Don’t get me wrong. I got no hateration for those cursed with being loose of ass. I laugh out of fear, for there’s always the possibility that on my 60th birthday, I will wake up to discover that I have inheirited not two brown eyes, but three, from Rumbles herself.

Hog-tied.

Well, it’s official. For the price of one gallon of gas, I could clothe, feed and educate my very own African child for one week. Or buy three king-sized Snickers bars. I am soooo going to hell.

The pumps are now pumping us. And if ever a pump pimp there was, it’s Bush. I cannot express my piss-offedness enough over the fact that the Empty Suit is getting rich off this. Someone really needs to research this theory of mine and call him on his shit. Not me, mind you, but somebody. I don’t have time to save the world — I’ve got a 2-year old.

It’s bad enough that it costs me 60 (gulp) dollars to fill up my tank. But now, I get to watch round old men perched atop their dusty crotch rockets as they reacquaint themselves with the laws of physics. Brotha, if you’re wearing Rockports and a pocket protector, you need to think twice before you whip out the Oakleys and mount that steel horse. The last time these guys took a motorcycle safety course, “Cannonball Run” was in the theaters.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciate their efforts at reducing our dependence on foreign oil. But I can’t be held responsible when one of these jokers takes off in fourth gear, pops an Evil Kneivel and catapults himself into the intersection, where I’ll have no choice but to squash him like a toad with my earthfucker.

Rage against The Machine.

Coming out of the elevators yesterday, I ran into this guy who used to be an internal client of mine. I barely recognized him, for he had gained like 80 pounds. Poor guy. I feel bad for anyone who is on the heavy end of their weight cycle. It was just shocking though, because this guy (a.k.a. “The Machine”) used to bike 20 miles every day before work.

With slicked-back hair and skin like tanned leather, The Machine would pull into the parking ramp every morning in his spotless white Cadillac El Dorado. Straight-up old school bad-ass. I’m guessing while the rest of us were watching “Sixteen Candles” and “Weird Science” back in high school, he was jacking off to “Wall Street.” Greed is good, brotha. Greed is good.

The Machine was known for calling 8 o’clock meetings on Fridays, to which he was always fifteen minutes early. He oozed so much confidence, people tended to stutter and stammer in his presence. And he liked that. He was one of the first in our company to volunteer to be a Six Sigma Black Belt (one to examine all company processes and make them efficient – i.e. job cuts).

Now that The Machine is fat (like me), I expect we’ll soon be chatting it up like old girlfriends, discussing our kids’ poop schedules, comparing our mother’s bracelets and ranting about the sucky bra selection at Lane Bryant.

Fat has a way of doing that – making one seem weak and therefore approachable. Maybe this deeply-rooted perception is primal. Bump into a fat person, and you’d simply ricochet off of them like you would one of those inflatable castles. Run up against a thin person, and there’s a good chance you’d be impaled by their hip bone.

But methinks the world should be more fearful of The Fat. Beneath our jolly exteriors, we’re secretly plotting a hostile takeover of the world. From our command center at Krispy Kreme’s corporate headquarters, we will issue our demands. Every store will have a drive-through, and airlines will be forced to rip out those ass-pinchers they call seats and install Lazy Boy’s.

So if I were you, I’d be nice to The Fat. I mean, we’re accustomed to instant gratification. We’re not about to wait for karma to get off its lazy ass and punish you for your evil ways. Which reminds me — perhaps I should e-mail The Machine and ask him if he’s Six Sigma’d lunch yet. I’m guessing not.

Gherkin jerks.

I have a theory. A hypothesis, if you will. Formed yesterday during my drive home from The Evil Empire. And this is it: The size of a person’s penis is inversely proportional to the size of their SUV. Note that I didn’t say “car.” This little rule only applies to SUV’s (and OK, maybe trucks). In fact, with sports cars, the exact opposite is true (the smaller the car, the smaller the penis). And also note that I didn’t say “man.” I think we’ve all met a few women who have got to be packing heat.

What proof do I have of my belief? Well, none. I’m going on instinct here, people. I mean, what possible purpose does an earth-fucking Hummer serve, other that to help the driver to overcompensate for the baby gherkin you know he’s jerkin’? Now, am I worried that I’ll alienate a whole population of men with my unscientific observations? Hardly. These are the same guys who can’t pry themselves away from their online fantasy football leagues long enough to attend company meetings or update their timesheets.

Female poop etiquette.

I just finished my first day of work at The Evil Empire. I had been in training all day long, my brain thoroughly numbed by talk of core values and vision statements.

Upon being released from my afternoon session, I escaped into the anonymous, comforting confines of the female bathroom. Being back in such a tight-ass corporate environment brought back memories of the requisite female poop etiquette. Ladies, you know what I’m talking about. Female poop etiquette — the unspoken rules of all female bathrooms. These rules do not apply to male bathrooms, for I have been told by my husband that if the kids need to be dropped off at the pool, men see no need to circle the block to wait for the perfect parking spot, so to speak. But for us women, things are different. We are polite. We are considerate. And we do not poop in the presence of other women.

The only exception to this rule is reserved for the traumatic and unfortunate explosive poop. It’s the kind that sends you to the bathroom in a clenched-cheek sprint, praying that you will make it there before your sphincter gives way and unleashes its unholy spray. In the instance of said condition, all bets are off. Poop etiquette be damned.

I actually experienced one of the aforementioned explosive poops as I was driving home from work a few years ago. The emergency was so great, I had to pull into a McDonald’s (a ghetto McD’s no less) to use the bathroom. I BARELY got there in time. I pulled my pants down and exploded before my hinder could hit the seat. You’d think that since I was within inches of the seat, that things would’ve landed properly. But no. The force was so great, the spray so powerful, that I ended up creating what looked like a Jackson Pollack on the seat, the floor and the bathroom tiles. I had seen such accidents in public bathrooms before and wondered what poor handicapped person or 100-year old had not been able to make it to the toilet. Even then, I thought, “who on this earth cannot physically hit the toilet?” Well, consider me enlightened. Horrified at my own filth, I proceeded to clean up my masterpiece with toilet paper.

But I digress. Back to etiquette. On any given day, a birdseye view of a women’s restroom would show stalls 1-4 being used by women taking their mid-morning pee. Perhaps one would be pumping breast milk. But in that 5th stall would be a red-faced woman, patiently holding it in until she is 100% sure that she is the only one left in the bathroom. You might find her peeking through the strategically placed observation slits (the gaps between the stall door and frame), gathering recon, looking for any signs of handwashing, or life, for that matter. She would put her ear to the air, listening for occupation (ruffling of toilet paper in far away stalls, the cadence of heels against the tile floor, etc.). If she were particularly anal, she might nonchalantly look under the stall for any shoes (especially ones she would recognize). Upon getting the all-clear, she would wait the appropriate amount of time, usually about one minute — giving any other occupants sufficient time to announce their presence. If no one harkens, then and only then will she will proceed. She then goes about the business at hand, executing a mercy flush if the function takes more time than expected.

The most awkward of all situations is when, after patiently waiting for solitude, a woman is barged in on during mid-poop, the offending lunker splashing down in unison with the interloper entering the rest room. The horror! Without the ability to retract the half-ejected mass, the pooper must continue. Her only defense at this point is to lift up her shoes, as to avoid identification.

On this particular day, the finer points of poop etiquette were running through my mind. I was at the bathroom sink, patting down my oil slick of a forehead with absorbant blotting paper, when a woman walked in, smiled, and entered a stall. She then sat on the toilet and went all Hiroshima on my ass, breaking every poop etiquette rule in the book. She was not in distress — cheeks were not clenched, and she was smiling. And it wasn’t a proper poop — it was a rumbler. I finished up my business as fast as possible, only to be chased out the door by her stink. I thought back to all the times I held it in, out of respect for others. Sometimes it hurt. Sometimes I had to bite my lip to keep focused. I went back to orientation the next day and filled out my class review survey. For a moment, I considered asking for the implementation of Poop 101. Obviously, some people needed a refresher course.