Fecal Matters

Warning: This is one of those “two types of people” essays.

In this world, there are two types of people: those who talk about it and those who don’t. If you’re a shit talker, you know that some people seem more than willing to get in your business, so to speak; they’re even enthusiastic about it, comparing toilet habits, engaging in a sort of number-two-upmanship.

I admit it; I’m a shit talker. Why, just last week, I shared a UFO experience (that’s floating, for the uninitiated) with my parents.

Due to a bit of scat synchronicity, poop’s been on my mind a lot lately. First came Fast Food Nation, which discusses, in depth, the fecal contamination of meat. Then I found an on-line article about tapeworms, which later sent me into a personal tapeworm scare (see above). Then came my first-ever bout with food poisoning, which made fecal matters worse than I’d ever imagined. Last week, I got a new dog, and he has the squirts, so I must perform daily grounds inspections. (This reminds me of a former student, last name of Hershey, whose nickname was Squirt.)

This week, I have been shopping for toilets. At Lowe’s, I couldn’t get anyone to wait on me. Maybe they could see me coming (or going!); maybe they thought the questions would be a little too personal. I went to Home Depot. I bought a tall one, “comfort height,” they call it. For some, even that is a little TMI.

Yesterday there was the question of what to do with the book, “Everybody Poops,” now that my daughter has outgrown the curiosity (thankfully before learning to remove her diaper and spread it on a wall, as I had done—as in infant, that is). I didn’t think it was the kind of thing you should share with strangers, so I’m passing it on to my 7-month-old nephew, who will soon need to learn about doo doo and its doers.

If you’re not a shit talker, you probably can’t imagine how a conversation about BMs begins. Well, it goes something like this:

me: I got food poisoning this weekend.
friend: Oh, no! That’s horrible!
me: And I was camping.
friend: I can’t even imagine. Were you throwing up, or...?

I’ll spare you the details, just in case you’re, you know, the other type of person in this world.

People have all sorts of colorful euphemisms for the things that take place in the toilet (or loo or water closet). Colorful and charming descriptions of number one include tinkling, pissing, taking a leak, draining the lizard, and freeing Willy. But number two is sheer poetry. We can take a dump, pinch a loaf, browncap, drop the kids off at the pool, lay a cable, and leave party favors. Pity the hostess whose parting gift is the peanut-speckled lump fish.

Who's a shit talker? You can probably guess just by looking at them. Both John Kerry and George Bush can talk some shit, but they probably don’t talk about it. In fact, unless they are comedians (Jack Black or Chris Rock, for instance), men are less likely to share toilet habits. Of the four regular women on “The View,” Joy Behar and Meridith Viera probably swap the dirty details. Starr Jones probably thinks about it but doesn’t say it out loud. And Barbara Walters—well, no. Cell phone hawkers Catherine Zeta Jones and Jamie Lee Curtis are most definitely concerned with Ka-Ka and probably discuss it with friends on the headset while driving. But Kelly Ripa? Uh, no.

If you’re a shit talker, you know that there are few rules. For instance, it’s nice to refrain from doo-doo discussions while you and others are dining, but it’s also okay to whisper over drinks, as long as the meal hasn’t been served. And if someone says, “That’s enough,” then it is.

If a friend is a little too enthusiastic about the discussion, I’d examine your relationship a little more closely.

Finally, it’s possible that you are a shit talker but simply haven’t found anyone who seems willing to go there with you. Give me a call. No, truth be told, most close relatives will listen, if they think it’s helpful. Because they may not all be shit talkers, but almost everyone in this world is a shit listener.