I am the King of Poop. It was not a tittle that I sought but it was a tittle that demanded my unique set of skills. Like most historic leaders, I did not want greatness but it was thrust upon me.
You would think that I would hire this particular job tittle out. Believe me, I would if I could. However many people taking pooping to be somewhat of an embarrassment so only the most trusted souls can be counted on to deal with it. Someone who knows how to provide a little discretion and can be counted on not to ask to many questions. I am the Matre’D of our Hossman Hotel.
Tickets, sure, I can get you tickets. Need a good hooker, I may be able to arrange that for a small fee. Please, let me send up a bottle of our finest bubbily. Need some poop cleaned up. Of course, sir, I can take care of that for you without involving the authorities. Tips are expected.
Hossmom tries to help but she finds herself more in the role of the resident nagger. However, she prefers the tittle of “Tell Hossman What to do.” We have built a 12 year relationship based on this organizational chart. But in this area, there is not a whole lot she can do because she is pregnant. All the experts in the world of Make Hossman Do stuff seem to agree that pregnant women are not allowed to handle poop. There is a loop hole however, she can handle the poop of our first born but just not any of the animals. I am a firm believer that this is a conspiracy that pregnant women got together on just to punish husbands. Worms, right, you will get worms if you handle poop. I guess I’m just expendiable.
Look, I get it, I’m not pregnant and you are. It’s not fun, I know it. Please let me go now. No more punishment. I know, it’s my fault you are this way. It’s my fault that you can’t smoke or drink or stay up past 8. It’s my fault that your back hurts and you gained weight. It’s my fault that you are swollen and everyone short of the Pope is taking a gander at you hoo-ha. It’s my fault that every stranger at the grocery store must man handle your belly like they are buying a new car. I get all this. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to get very drunk infront of you.
But first, I must clean the poop. Why? Because you told me to. Granted, you told me 2 days ago but what you fail to realize was that I was ignoring you. I cannot be held responsible because you didn’t make your case strongly enough.
The cat box is my mortal enemy. I will never, ever in my entire life own another cat. It’s not that I hate cats, but they have to lay a deuce where it can’t be ignored. My wife has tried to help me out on this one in the past. We actually bought the motorized cat box that is supposed to “self clean”. I am considering a law suit because it is a piece of junk and the only thing it cleans is my pride which is stripped away. Basically, it would scoop the cat poop into a little box. Then it would retract. When it retracted, the same poop that was supposed to be deposited stuck on the scooper. Come on, did someone test this thing before making it to market. I get it, you just don’t care. We fell for a gimmick and you got your money and I still have poop to clean up.
So I took the thing outside to give it a good spraying. But it being electric and all, well, it no longer worked. This is the best invention ever: a cat litter box that cannot be cleaned and that mashes poop up at the same time. Genius. Take my 150 bucks. I could use a kidney transplant, buy hey, my priorities are straight.
The cats don’t like watching me cleaning there poop. I disagree with this. I want them to feel shamed. Please, be embarrassed that you are a grown cat and can’t take better care of yourself than this. In fact, I’m going to make a YouTube video of this and put it on the net. Maybe then you will learn to take a dump in the alley like the rest of God’s Creatures.
And I very much appreciate that it is sticking to the sides and must be scrapped off. Afterall, I am the King of Poop and must therefore enjoy my job ever so much. I am the Mary Poppins of Poop.
After that chore is done, it’s time to concentrate on the dogs. Atleast with the cats it’s all in one place. And this is one I can’t ignore for long because my daughter plays in out backyard. I know that one day she will go out there, find a piece of poop and eat it. Then it will be my fault as my wife rushes to the ER and explain what a horrible provider she has at home.
My dogs like to spread it around a little, sometimes even hide it. That way, when you step in it, it will be a complete surprise. The big bombs make especially good sandle decour. I have troll feet already, what’s a little poop.
Our fat dog enjoys trying to play when I do this. Everytime I bend down to get a nugget she must jump in my face. I think that she believes that she is playing a cover 2 defense and is blocking so that I can’t see what I am grabbing. Maybe poop, maybe a dead bird. It’s the Let’s Make a Deal of our backyard poop game. Who wants to play POOP! The brand new Hasbro game for those who have no other choices.
And what happens when the toilet is clogged in the home? I swear to god it must be a human rule that only one person in a house learns to use a plunger. It has got to be on the books somewhere that only Dad can use the plunger like it’s the car keys to his brand new porche. This is the main reason I want a son on my next one. As soon as he learns to make up and down arm motions, he inherits the plunger. Yes, before he is even born I am assigning chores. If I have another girl then the job remains mine and I am cursed forever.
Which finally brings me to Little Hoss. Anyone want to guess what she got me for Father’s day? That’s right, a poop in the tub, round two. Just what I always wanted.
And we were having such a good, great Father’s day. She sat in my lap and colored her brand new coloring book. It was great times. She would make random scratches while I had a crayon and tried to add some order to her chaos. This apparently wasn’t going with her abstract idea so she would take my crayon and put it aside while she continued on. We did this for about an hour. It was a great Fathers day. We went out to eat and we even colored at the restaurant.
On the ride home we put her in the backseat. I forgot to take the yellow crayon away from her. Other parents can probably see where this is going. I look back and I see nothing but yellow wax flakes around her mouth. There is no more crayon. She ate it. She ate the yellow crayon.
I thought we were so past this. I thought that we were done with putting non food items in our mouths. She hasn’t done this in a while. But I realize now that she was just getting ready to give me her greatest masterpiece. The crayon eating, tub shitting Picasso.
Later that night we get in the tub and are having a good time. She looks at me, smiles and then grunts. Bam, we have the newest performance artist on the scene. My wife, who detests poop in all it’s forms, quickly scooped up my daughter from the now tainted water. She leaves the room and leaves me.
This time there is no discussion. I know what my job is. There is no division of labor here. There is poop and there is Dad.
I am crowned the King of Poop, my name shall go down in History.