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Is this normal for my wife to feel this way about me and my issues?
Drinking heavily for about the last fifteen years of my life has apparently done some pretty wicked damage to my digestive tract and colon, and I’ve noticed over the span of about year that it’s getting progressively worse. My pooh used to be normal. You know the type of pooh that I’m talking about. It comes out in a solid mass, curls up in a nice little coil in the bowl, and closely resembles soft-serve ice cream. Your butt wipes clean with only a few, modest swipes, you flush, and the whole turd makes it’s escape from the bowl in it’s entirety and is deposited conveniently into the nearest sewage treatment facility. The pooh I take now require therapy to recover from. When I say that my poop has played a detrimental role in my marriage, I’m not exaggerating in the least. Now, let’s not make light of the fact that pooh , in any form, is pretty disgusting, but the pooh I’ve taken in the last few months could be considered a tier-three biohazard, and slightly elevate the nation’s terrorism threat level. When I hit the crapper, it’s nothing short antique porcelain bowl made in germa of a full-on, fecal explosion. There’s none of this sitting around for ten minutes and pushing like I’m trying to give birth, only to bear witness to a tiny chunk of crap that would make rabbit a turd look like a steaming pile of dog pooh. No, sir. When I pooh , the entire mass escapes my sphincter in a giant flood that requires only one, mighty push, and leaves me in an exhausted state with beads of sweat rolling gently off my forehead. It’s some nasty . pooh . The thing that gets me about my recent pooh isn’t so much the procedure, but rather the consistency of the crap, itself. Gone are the days where my poop looked like a headless rattlesnake, curled up all snug and comfortable in its porcelain shelter. At this point in my life, my pooh closely resembles a giant puddle of mud, with corn chunks and small pieces of undigested red meat thrown in, to boot. And the pooh never fails to utilize every square inch of the bowl, leaving no sign of the white porcelain at the bottom. That’s some deep . pooh And let’s not forget the odor. I’ve seriously smelled decomposing corpses that carried with them a more pleasant aroma than the fecal matter that I’ve recently deposited. The stench that accompanies my pooh could literally strip varnish from antique furniture and would make an excellent tool for anyone with an occupation in the welding industry. It’s some really smelly pooh. All of these pooh symptoms have made recent months tough on my marriage. I actually enjoy sharing all the details of my life with my better half, but for some reason, my wife has the audacity to think that discussion of pooh is so taboo that it shouldn’t be spoken of at the dinner table. However, she’ll drop a bomb in the toilet that infects the house with the smell of stale broccoli and wheat without hesitation and exit the bathroom with pooh-eating grin on her face. What kind of pooh is that? My wife can get lost with that hypocrisy. I like that my pooh could break world records. I enjoy the fact that my fiber and booze intake makes my butt explode with the force of an atomic bomb. I like that the smell that originates from the depths of my colon could melt vulcanized rubber. If she can’t deal with that fact then I’ve only got two words for her:Tough pooh.
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