Today, on a very special Monday Enema, Dad Gone Mad is overjoyed to learn that there are people on the internet far more disturbed than he.

Oh Wise One.

Recently, I was in a social situation - a formal party with many workpeople - in which the peristaltic purge became overwhelming and I knew I was in dire need of laying down one of my trademark Illinois-bred Land of Lincoln logs.

No big shit. Actually, it was. A monstrosity of fecal lumber that surprised even me when I stood up to admire my work.

As I flushed and bid a tearful farewell to my recently departed, something happened. I had a clogger. To make it worse, there was no plunger or even a fucking toilet brush that I could have tried to use to force this colossal colon consummation down the shit chute.

I was faced with either the humility of asking the host for a plunger, nonchalantly walking off as if I was not the doer of such an assturdly deed, or to take matters into my own hands.

I chose the latter, rolled up my shirt sleeves, and reached deep into the bowel bowl and undid the clog myself.

My question to you - in hindsight, other than the manual mud manipulation, can you think of any other method by which I could have solved this problem while still maintaining my status as an upstanding member of the community?

If used - feel free to rewrite or edit this piece of shit as needed.

Macek

Dear Macek,

You know what’s funny? My mother reads this blog. My mother! The one who raised me to be respectable and proud and honorable. The one who tells all of her Mah Jong friends that they absolutely must look at her son’s blog (“Blog? What’s a blog?”) and read the witty and charming things he writes. What must she be thinking when she opens this site on her browser and finds that I’m fielding questions about assclowns trying to shove turds down the chute with their bare hands?

[Hi, mom.]

Actually, Macek, the scenario you detail here reminds me a little bit of the old board game called Clue. If you’re guilty of clogging the bowl at a party again in the future (assuming you’ll ever again be invited into the homes of other people, which is by no means a done deal) I suggest you leave your offspring in the crapper and walk away. When it is discovered, the whole gathering can engage in a little Clue-like game of who-dumped-it. “It was Mr. Macek, in the downstairs guest bathroom, with a bowl of Fiber One.”

(But, dude. Seriously. Between me and you. Don’t touch your own poo. And if you must touch it, don’t “manipulate” it. That’s just gross.)

Dear Dad Gone Mad,

1) Who the heck are the people in your avatar?  For a while I thought it was you and Hot Wife, then you posted pics of your very Caucasian self (has anyone told you that you bear a passing resemblance to Michael Richards when you wear that ballcap?).

2) What's up with women who wear sleep attire in public?  I'm talking about the chicks scuffing around the Wal-Mart in the middle of the day in their faded Winnie-the-Pooh cotton sleep pants and FUZZY SLIPPERS.

Yo, what's up bitch? You had enough time to put on lipstick and snag your $200 cell-phone on the way out the door but you couldn't put on SHOES?  And do you not own a mirror?  'Cause, honey, you need to get a quick glimpse of your ass.  The rest of us are petrified by the sight of your hips jiggling above the waistband that's ridden down to your butt-crack.

I won't even address the belly fat welling out between the pants and the babydoll camisole in the front

And don't talk to me about how you're pregnant and your feet hurt, either.  I'm twice your age, 8 months along with my 4th, and wrangling the other three (2 toddlers and a baby) and I'm dressed so as not to frighten passers-by.  Talk to the hand.  This is NOT your house.

whew*  I feel better.  Thanks DGM!  Cheap therapy, lol

Sincerely,

Cool Shade Farm 

Dear CSF,

I have absolutely no idea who the people in the picture to your left are, but Hot Wife and I have shared many a chortle over the visitors to Dad Gone Mad who think that’s us. Also? Not sure how happy I am about being compared to Kramer. I have at various times been told that I look like Joe DiMaggio, Bob Saget, Anthony Michael Hall (from the Sixteen Candles days) and RuPaul sans makeup. None of those really work for me. I was hoping that seeing my photo would conjure images of more -- oh, I don’t know – “attractive” people. But whatever. Hot Wife thinks I’m the cat’s ass and that’s all that matters.

As for your second query, I hardly feel qualified to talk because every Saturday morning when Left-Handed Power-Hitting Son and I go to Starbucks, it’s hats and flip-flops for both of us. We look destitute actually. Then again, this is a forum for tearing dummies a new one, so let us proceed as though we DIDN’T live in a glass house.   

Yeah. Dumbshits. What gives with wearing your PJs to the mall? This isn’t a fucking slumber party, OK, Peaches? And if you absolutely must go out in public with all of the Popeyes-chicken-and-biscuits-powered fat squeezing out of every seam, please, in the name of all that is holy and good, do not wear spandex hot pants. This isn’t some Kirstie Alley program or a new episode of The Biggest Loser. Cover your rolls and save the rest of us the torture of having to imagine what all of that jiggle sounds like when your 400-pound “baby daddy” is on top of you, giving you the business and picking the Sour Cream and Onion Pringles crumbs out from between your skin folds.

Dear Dad Gone Mad,

I would be very keen to hear your opinion on this.  Although raising teenagers is still coming to a theater near you, perhaps you can shed some light on this phenomenon.

If ANYONE outside of our house asks our teenage son to do something that resembles a chore, like raking leaves, clean out the garage, etc., he will spring to it like he stands to win a gold medal.  If a similar request is made at home, we go from 0 to DEFCON OFF THE RADAR in 0.13 seconds.  Chances of it getting done with an obliging and willing smile like a friend's aunt, father, grandmother or distant relative might enjoy are NIL at home.

Thanks.

Dawn

Dear Dawn,

I don’t think teenagers are altogether different from my kids. A little taller maybe. And that whole puberty thing. But otherwise they’re just kids in bigger, hairier, more acne-covered bodies. As such, I suggest you borrow some of the punitive techniques implemented at Evans World headquarters.

1) There is a little corner in the foyer (see: hall closet) that we have renamed “The Penalty Box.” When a child does something egregiously wrong – like throwing urine-filled water balloons at the neighbors and taking daddy’s Honda CR-V for a joyride down to the liquor store for a jug of Southern Comfort and the new issue of Penthouse Forum – the child is banished to The Penalty Box for a time not less than one minute for each year of his life. At your kids’ ages, that could mean one whole episode of MTV Cribs.

2) There is a small glass jar and a bag of marbles. Every time the child does something good – like cleaning his room or peeling all of the Dora The Explorer stickers off of the front windshield of mommy’s minivan – they get one marble in the jar. When they get 20 marbles, they get a reward, such as a trip to Dairy Queen for a Blizzard or removal from solitary confinement.

--

Submit your questions for the next Monday Enema to themondayenema@dadgonemad.com.

Comments

I clogged the toilet at my grandparents house once. I walked away without telling anyone. Come to find out that they couldn't get it unstuck, and when they did the toilet never worked the same. So they had to replace it.

I never told anyone else about this until now. So please, don't tell my grandparents. I'd owe them money.

ohmygod. That is SO fucked up, Macek. I just want to puke up my chocolate covered matzas that I am definitely NOT eating before noon. I have never heard anything so disgusting, EVER.

Anthony Michael Hall? So not! I don't know about the rest of them, they don't really strike a chord with me, but AMH is just ridiculous. That's the lamest comparison ever.

Oh, and Danny, I think you're gonna be in great shape when those kids of yours get to be teenagers. Oh yeah!

You mean you don't just beat your children in submission like the rest of us?? Huh.
Touching poo, mine or anyones else's- NEVER.
Don't eat at Popeyes, work out every day, so have the body to dress like that, but I don't. Why do fat people feel like they are exempt from the rules of spandex?

I hate you.

You don't hate me, Macek. You wish you did, but you couldn't possibly. I'm you. You're me. We're we. If you hate me, you hate your poo-touching self.

i have to agree with wondersis here....anthony michael hall? wha? no way, no day. i can't place who you look like exactly...oh wait, one who itches his itchy cornhole in public maybe? i thought you looked familiar!

TMC, wow.

I seem to have bonded with 'kneidel ass' and moved on from Dano, so, kneidel ass, while I am grateful for the response and hang on your every word ... nah, dooon't think so .... The Penalty Box, bit like the 'naughty mat' .... this is no episode of Nanny 911, or Super Nanny - this is TEENAGERS FULL THROTTLE I'm talking about - but it does not change the high esteem I hold you in - if the Penalty Box works for you - go for it! I am starting to feel a deep fondness for Wondersis!!!!

i'm hangin for popeyes biscuits now... i promise to cover my rolls if you figure out a way to get some to me in Australia

Is that just a poor excuse to continually use the term 'losing your marbles' on every occasion possible?

I don't know, my husband is the champion when it comes to cheezy cliches, so maybe it's just me.

I've got a 5-year-old that says, "6 in one hand, half dozen in the other!"

I'm with Brighton on this one. What happened to just beating the stuffing out of them?

OK, OK, I don't beat my kids ... but they're not teenagers yet!

Anthony Michael Hall? WTF?

-Blue (of Cool Shade Farm)

OMG DGM!! I read your site shortly before I went to bed last night. NEVER AGAIN!! No way, no how, not ever, reading you before bed. I had a dream. In that dream, I took a huge shit (which for me is not common). I stopped up the toilet. I was NOT at home. See where this is going? So, I look in the toilet and decide what to do. I think, I could just mush it up, and it will go down. EWWWWWWWW. Then, I think- no, DGM says to just leave it and its all good. So I did.

Never in a zillion years would I ever think of TOUCHING my own shit! Ever. So, new rule: I must watch/read something after DGM before I go to bed. Thank you for such an enlightening experience. :-)

All of my future toilet visits will be haunted by the imagery of Macek's tale. Thanks, DGM!