Investing in the future

At this point in my life, I'm embarrassed to say (and yet not too embarrassed to reveal) that I no longer know how many times I've soiled my pants.  These incidents have become too numerous to count.

It started in 1991 when I was a girl of 15 shitting my pants on Easter.  I think it was the au gratin potatoes that did it, but who cares?  The only soundtrack to this day in history was the uproarious laughter of my cousins.  This streak (pun intended) continues to this very day wherein I shit my pants not 14 feet from the toilet in my own house (yes, Scott got out the measuring tape to get exact metrics on this).

The details, while hilarious, are not really appropriate for a public forum.  Suffice it to say that no one was more surprised that I was shitting my pants than yours truly.  Except maybe Scott, who was only a few feet away.  When I realized what happened, I turned around, mortified, to see old Count Scottula gazing at me with a mixture of shock and awe.  And by awe I mean horror.

Usually these kinds of incidents are preceded by a frantic retreat to our home.  A scurrying, if you will.  A race against time.  Not this time.  I was just mild-manneredly minding my own business, enjoying a game of online Scrabble, without the vaguest of inklings of what was to come when, KAPOW.

Friends, I am going to purchase stock in Depends forthwith.  For the future.  I may as well make money on this malady.

To: Sworn enemies. Return address: Unknown

Scott (the Count of Counts - Hallelujah! Hallelujah!) gave me a copy of George Carlin's autobiography (or sortofbiography, as Carlin called it), Last Words.

It is dynamite. I love it. I'm on page 178. I like it so much better than Steve Martin's stab at the same, Born Standing Up.

Both talk a lot about their early lives and stand-up. Last Words, though, actually includes pieces of material written out, including how the pieces changed over time. I'm finding this way more enlightening as a comic. Both are good stories, though, and worth reading.

One part of Last Words has kept me laughing since I read it. George Carlin starts the book with all that David Copperfield kind of crap (sorry, Holden Caulfield). In the section about his maternal grandfather, he begins to talk about his mother, Mary Carlin:

Mary was the first of his six children, all born in either Greenwich Village or Chelsea. She was frail as a kid and among other things was given a glass of Guinness stout each night to build her up. It worked. The physical strength she ultimately developed was matched by mental toughness. When she was ten she sent a box of horseshit to a girl on her block who had neglected to invite her to a birthday party. She was small, vivacious, made friends easily, played piano, was a great, dancer, laughed loudly ... and you didn't want her for an enemy.

I read this aloud to Scott in bed. I said, "Can you even believe that? She was 10! Incredible!" and he replied, "I can't believe you've never thought of sending anyone a box of shit."

I really hadn't. And once he suggested it, I couldn't believe I hadn't thought of it either.

We proceeded to talk about how a person, in this modern age, might send shit through the United States Postal Service without being detected. A ziplock bag would not be enough. Tyvek? Maybe. But under no circumstance should a person include his or her return address or apply his or her handwriting to the box. Certainly, the box would be full of his or her DNA, but the federal government has bigger fish to fry than to run a DNA test on a box full of feces. And anyway, even if they did, they'd have to have another sample of his or her DNA to make a match, and they wouldn't, so he or she'd be home free!

My god! It almost seems too easy!

We got ourselves laughing so hard about this that I had to get out of bed and cough vigorously while Scott shook quietly in the bed making his laughing-really-hard face.

I guess there are a number of points here. The first is I wish I had the courage to shit into a box and mail it to someone. Incidentally, I can't think of a single person I want to mail my shit to. And what if I thought of someone, but then I changed my mind after it was mailed? It's just mortifying to think of - and at the same time hilariously funny.

Another point is that when I met Scott, I couldn't possibly have foreseen that we'd both find shitting in a box and mailing it to another person so hilarious. We are so perfectly suited to one another that it probably makes people want to hurl a little bit. And I can't blame them. If it was four years ago and I saw a happy couple like Scott and me, I would barf a little bit myself - a jealous and angry barf, certainly, but barf nonetheless. (Would it help the barfing people to know that being happy with another person takes work and often involves the help of a qualified professional? Because it does.)

Finally, if you have delivered - or if you plan to deliver - a Mary-Carlin-style box of feces to another person, I kind of want to know how it went/goes - just so long as you're not sending it to me. I promise I won't tell (unless a subpeona is involved).