Life Is Shit


More accurately, Life is dealing with other people’s shit.

Here’s a perfect example. Last week, we took the boys to the orientation before school started. They go find their classroom, meet the teacher and find out all the stuff they need to know before the first day of school. Also, I suspect, so they don’t have that recurring nightmare where they find themselves at school without knowing their class schedule or wearing pants.

On the way to this goddamn waste of my morning excellent method of reducing childhood anxiety and screaming nightmares, Nine started acting strange. Normally, he’s a very confident and cocky kid. Lately, he’s been a little clingy and nervous. It may be his recent move from youngest to middle child.

We get to his school a few minutes before the whatsis is supposed to start. While waiting in the lobby with the entire student body and their parents, he starts to get a little jittery. He announces his intention to go to the bathroom. He then makes a bee line into the women’s. After an awkward second, he turns and goes into the men’s. A few moments later, he comes out still looking like he just survived an Eli Roth film.

“I need to go lie down,” he mumbled.

After rolling my eyes and muttering under my breath about what little hothouse flowers today’s kids are, I took him out to the truck. In all fairness, he has had some dizzy spells recently, probably related to messed up blood sugar. The kid consumes almost nothing save pizza and coke for breakfast, lunch and dinner. What could be wrong with him?

In fact, he had pizza for every meal the previous day. Papa John’s+Nervous About School=Upset Stomach. We get to the truck and he curls up in the back seat.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” is the next bit of moaning I hear over NPR’s morning drumbeat of how the planet is doomed and how some obscure West African dude who raps and plays the bagpipes is the next big thing amongst the hyphenated last names of the public radio audience.

“I thought you just went.”

“I need to poop.”

“Why didn’t you poop when you were in the bathroom?”

“I don’t know who else has used the toilet.”

I am unable to go into detail here, but suffice to say, that particular bit of neurotic jackassery is totally his mother’s fault.

“Fine. We can be at D-Daddy’s (‘Grandfather’, for those of you who don’t speak Tennessean) house in a couple of minutes.”


I let Mrs. Sarcastro and Twelve know what we are doing and start flying down Waldron Road to get the kid to a suitable crapper in time to get him back for this goddamn waste of my morning school thingy. Whaddya know. A booger-eating inbred with Kentucky plates is going three miles an hour right in front of me.  Oh, what I would have given for a rocket launcher.  Or three.

From the back seat I hear, “I really have to go.”

“I know, buddy. Just hang on. We’ll be there in a minute.”

“I don’t know if I can make it.”

“Son, I really need you to try to hold it until we get to D-Daddy’s.”

“I’m trying.”

“Get off the fucking road you fucking retard! I got a sick kid! Fuck!”

“It’s coming! I can’t hold it!”

I don’t know what sound a blood vessel bursting in one’s head makes, but I know what it feels like.

“It’s running down my leg! Ugh! It’s all over your seat! I’m sorry!”

Then the smell hit me.

Immediately the windows all went down. Even so, it wasn’t enough to keep me from starting to gag. I called his mother, who was still at the school meeting the teacher and whatnot.

“We have a Code Brown! You have to get to your parent’s house immediately!”

“Why? What happened?”

Let me just add here that I love and adore my wife, but asking stupid questions in the middle of a crisis situation is one of her favorite things to do. You never saw Dixie McCall asking DeSoto or Gage stupid fucking questions did you?


We pulled into D-daddy’s driveway and I told Nine to get inside and get cleaned up. The poor kid was covered in diarrhea from his new school shorts all down his legs to his Crocs.

I staggered over to the front yard to start an aggressive round of the dry heaves. There along the driveway and into the house is a trail of poo. I make my way back to the truck to size up the damage.

There, on the seat, with drips of it on the floorboards and oozing into the seatbelt holder thing, is a pile of runny shit, roughly the size of a medium pepperoni pizza.

I go into the house and get another “What happened?” interrogation from my father-in-law. Must run in the family. I guess the sight of his grandson covered in shit and leaving a trail of it where ever he went wasn’t a big enough clue.

Now keep in mind, it is already at least 85 degrees in the shade at 7:30 in the blessed a.m. The temp inside the truck will hit about 350 degrees by the time I get off work. Hot enough to bake the shit into the upholstery. The smell will never go away if I don’t clean it up, stat.

Nine has showered and changed into some spare clothes by the time I get all the cleaning supplies together. I’m outside cleaning this shit up and he’s happily watching TV. For some reason I began to recall Samuel L. Jackson cleaning brains out of the back seat in Pulp Fiction.

It all came out in the wash and the car smells like daisies.

As for Nine, he now has a crippling addiction to Immodium.

Now this story would be bad enough were it not for a few things.

One, the indignity of the daily handling of the feces of our youngest child. His bowel movements seem to occur exclusively after his mother has gone to work, but before I take him to daycare. Now that he is starting to eat food-like stuff, his scat now resembles a mixture of roofing tar and strained pears.

Two, the condo board has decreed that we have to start picking up the dog crap. There is an area where all the broken down vans and boats are stored in our little neighborhood that no one uses. A small grassy area that no one walks by, except for the folks who walk their dogs to that spot to take a dump. That’s it. Apparently, they are going to start dusting the dog shit for prints and fine us fifty bucks per turd.

Three, the crawlspace I was in yesterday brought this whole thing into perspective. A contractor had been there the day before. I was supposed to fix what he had screwed up. He, too, must have been nervous about school starting.

There was a pile of fresh diarrhea under this house.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
To you, this I submit
Either way, there will be a lot of shit.


21 Responses to “Life Is Shit”

  1. Lesley Says:

    First, I’m never having kids.
    Second, I’m never getting a dog. The cat shit is bad enough.
    Third, how the hell did someone manage to take a dump in crawlspace? That’s a rhetorical question; please don’t answer it.

  2. Katherine Coble Says:

    I have long ago stopped taking your metaphorical speech literally.

    Remind me that sometimes you mean it.

    And that I shouldn’t read those posts before fixing dinner.

    BTW, thank you for single handedly curing me of this week’s round of Baby Fever.

  3. Ginger Says:

    Who needs a drink to relieve stress after a hard day when all ya gotta do is come here and read about all kinds of shit…

  4. Nashville Knucklehead Says:

    Should have called Squad 51 to start an IV of Ringers Lactate and transport to Rampart, stat!

    “A personally autographed picture of Randy Mantooth!”
    – – The Tubes

  5. celine Says:

    i am sure that my husband will want to personally thank you for talking me out of kids for at least another week or two. that sounds like total misery.. the dump in the crawlspace, though? that is pure gold.

  6. Sarcastro Says:

    This particular crawlspace had enough clearance that one could, um, squat.

  7. Bob K Says:

    Funniest thing I’ve ever read on the web!

    And yes, I’ve seen contractor crap on the floor inside the building. Just how bad is the porta-john if you’d rather crap on the floor?

  8. Kathy T. Says:

    Every time I read your posts, my husband glares at me for laughing too loud. Thanks, man.

  9. Holiday Grinch Says:

    Can’t wait to read about the pinworms and head lice!

  10. sgazzetti Says:

    Hey, at least he was wearing Crocs.

    Love the ‘Emergency’ reference.

    I believe it was Harvey Keitel cleaning up the brains.

    And seriously, watch that school anxiety thing. I drank my weight in Pepto-Bismol every week of junior high. And PLDC.

  11. Sarcastro Says:

    Jules: [Vincent and Jules are cleaning the inside of the car which is covered in blood] Oh, man, I will never forgive your ass for this shit. This is some fucked-up repugnant shit.
    Vincent: Jules, did you ever hear the philosophy that once a man admits that he’s wrong that he is immediately forgiven for all wrongdoings? Have you ever heard that?
    Jules: Get the fuck out my face with that shit! The motherfucker that said that shit never had to pick up itty-bitty pieces of skull on account of your dumb ass.
    Vincent: I got a threshold, Jules. I got a threshold for the abuse that I will take. Now, right now, I’m a fuckin’ race car, right, and you got me the red. And I’m just sayin’, I’m just sayin’ that it’s fuckin’ dangerous to have a race car in the fuckin’ red. That’s all. I could blow.
    Jules: Oh! Oh! You ready to blow?
    Vincent: Yeah, I’m ready to blow.
    Jules: Well, I’m a mushroom-cloud-layin’ motherfucker, motherfucker! Every time my fingers touch brain, I’m Superfly T.N.T., I’m the Guns of the Navarone! IN FACT, WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOIN’ IN THE BACK? YOU’RE THE MOTHERFUCKER WHO SHOULD BE ON BRAIN DETAIL! We’re fuckin’ switchin’! I’m washin’ the windows, and you’re pickin’ up this nigger’s skull!

  12. jagadiah Says:

    I thought my dog expressing his anal glands on my couch was bad, but kid diarrhea in a hot car blows my shit story out of the water.

  13. Music City Bloggers » Blog Archive » One Of Those Things I Link Against My Better Judgement Says:

    […] It’s funny. […]

  14. newscoma Says:

    I am laughing out loud and my employees here at my office are staring at me like I’m nuts.
    Is it wrong to laugh over shit stories?

    No, I think not.

  15. graceless24 Says:

    I love shit stories. This one is pure awesomeness.

    I once alienated a whole section of my family by telling a “My 10 year old cousin pooped his pants during a family dinner cause he just couldn’t hold it” story on the radio one morning.

    My aunt still hasn’t talked to me and that was almost 12 years ago.

  16. saraclark Says:

    I think the follow up Pulp Fiction quote says it all. You’ve got balls of steel, I could not have done it and not given the kid a lifetime complex.

    This is the part that no one tells you about.

  17. Exador Says:

    That kid just chalked up a year’s worth of therapy, redeamable later in life.

  18. Rachel Says:

    My first thought was, “Maybe next time the kid’ll go where he can instead of making people driving all over town.” Perhaps I shouldn’t have children.

  19. Sarcastro Says:

    After the shit was cleaned, we sat down and had a talk.

    It started something like, “I’m not mad at you, okay? But from now on, if you have to go to the bathroom, USE THE FUCKING TOILET THAT IS RIGHT THERE DON’T TRY TO HOLD OUT FOR A BETTER PLACE TO SHIT!”

    Okay, maybe I didn’t say ‘fucking’.

  20. Lynnster Says:

    I haven’t been feeling too hip and happy this week but damn, my life and my week sure looks a whole lot better now after reading about yours. Hee.

  21. sistasmiff Says:

    One, I would love to hear you say “D-Daddy.” Somehow I can’t imagine you saying that word.

    Two, perhaps Nine will take from this experience the importance of not trying to hold it in. I’m amazed at the number of adults I know who will not do #2 away from home. Come on.

    If I wasn’t fearful my 6’2 son would injure me, I’d blog about the time when he was in 3rd grade I had to leave work and go to school cause he crapped his pants. He never crapped that much when he was wearing diapers!

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