>The Scene: Room at the Palace Hotel, San Francisco

Husband: It smells like gas in here.
Me (reaching into backpack): That’s because I farted. I have a bad stomach ache, but I need to select a magazine before I go into the bathroom. I wouldn’t want to have streamers of diarrhea shooting out of me without some entertainment.
Husband: That’s disgusting.
Me: Mwa ha ha ha!

For the record, I selected Entertainment Weekly and found it did the job well.

Later, same room, Husband reading in bed with me stretched out next to him typing on laptop:

Husband: What are you writing about?
Me: Streamers of diarrhea. Ha ha ha ha!
Husband: Get off the bed!

Generally, I find doody stories to be hilarious. I like making doody jokes*, even when they are not really “jokes” per se, but more like disgusting comments about feces. A few days ago, however, I was reading a real-life doody story on The Life and Times of a Twenty-Something. (Yeah, those days are long gone for my aged ass. Sigh...) Long story short, my blog friend David seemed taken aback and slightly disgusted (although also amused) when some random chick graphically described to him her need to crap immediately. (Seems that she spent so long talking about crapping instead of getting up and going to the bathroom that she literally shit herself.) This made me wonder whether my ongoing fascination with bathroom humor is either pathetic, horribly crude, or both. Not that it stops me from continuing to find doody jokes to be gut busting (hee hee), but it does make me wonder a bit.

*Incidentally, the best doody joke in the history of doody jokes was told my George Carlin in The Aristocrats. I was laughing so hard that I nearly inhaled the Skittle I was eating and began choking.