Poop Jokes

I think one of the few things that I'm able to do fairly well is to laugh at myself with great regularity and with the precision of a well-tuned (but nevertheless haphazard) Swiss time-keeping device. There was the time where I was playing rec league baseball. My dad was the coach of the team, and I remember waking up that morning to eat my raisin bran before the game. It was one of those wet mornings, where the sky is grey and dark, and the onset of rain is imminent. Rain fell hard the night before, and as a result the infield proved to be unplayable. We moved the game out onto the outfield though and made a make-shift diamond. We always did the best that we could to fit games inbetween the wet, cold spring and the fall that would arrive so fast. I guess it really is fitting that we were playing in the wrong direction. In physics, we refer to this sort of nonsense as some sort of coordinate transformation. The field had the look and feel of real ball diamond, with the exception that the action was transposed in the wrong angle. Regardless of the inertial frame though, the same laws of physics apply. Today would prove to be no exception.

At any rate, the game played on, and I felt uncomfortable from the get-go. Nothing seemed right, and the grass was slick from rain. The batting helmets felt too tight. Maybe my head was absorbing the moisture from the air around me, causing it to swell to some significant portion above normal. Some people get big heads from their achievements, but not me. No sir, I'm a simple type, and I only get a big head when it rains. Several innings into the game we got a nice drizzle. I remember walking up to the plate for my at-bat when my bowels made the first indication that not all was well in Brownstown. I don't think the Cleveland Browns left town that year, but let's pretend that they did for the sake of argument.

As often happens, the physical limitations seem to disappear when the opportunity to shine arises. When a beautifully fat pitched ball came floating towards the plate, my body transformed from that of an awkward and chubby pre-adolescent to that of a steroid-inflated Barry Bonds. I was really in the zone, like you'll often hear Michael Jordan or Tiger Woods refer to. You could count the number of seams sticking out of that moist, dirty baseball. With great coordination and grace and symmetry and power, bat met ball. The all to familiar metallic clank off my trusty Easton Magnum sounded in the air, alerting fan and player alike to the excitement to take place on the bases. The black and gold beauty sent the ball screaming out towards the gap in left-centerfield.

Per expectation of a boy my size, the idea of running quickly returned my body to its previous, less impressive form. I struggled towards first, concentrating extremely hard on preventing myself from slipping due to the moisture on the ground. Wind and drizzle conspired to impede my progress. And as I rounded first, my bowels made there second indication. I couldn't hold it. One fart, two, three, four...it wouldn't stop. The second baseman looked at his counterpart at short and made a chuckle. When it became evident that the rapid succession would continue, full out laughter began to build in the infield. Meanwhile, I managed to motor all the way towards third. A quick slap on the back from my dad coaching third, plus his trademarked ridiculous laugh made me burst out into laughter as well. I looked around and could not believe what I just did. I didn't make a single comment about it, I just looked sheepishly around and felt completely embarassed. But it really was funny, and I like the sound of laughter. "Yeah Jon, you really turned the jets on for that one, didn't you?"

"I sure did pop, I sure did."

That was one of the earliest memories that I have of the mutual distrust that would grow between myself and my bowels.