The Doo-Doo Bandit Part Deux, Part 2

The Doo-Doo Bandit Part Deux, Part 2

A Story By Rick Boykin




“I am a spectre

A shell of my former self

No longer a man,

Only a gross, doo-doo man

Freshly plucked from the bowl”


A short (tanka) poem about toileting


           Toileting, or toilet based messaging, has become one of this country’s greatest vices.

           People you know, people you love, and people you hate are all implicated in one way or another. Perhaps they are victims, innocents who have their grace tarnished by the bowel of another. Or worse, perhaps they are the toileteers, individuals who regularly partake in communication while on the can.

            Toileting is problematic because of its ramifications for relationships. Based on a study done at the University of San Diegociso, a small town located between San Diego and San Francisco, a text message or phone call made while on the can is 147% less appreciated by the recipient if he or she has knowledge of its origin. Worse yet, this number accelerates downward, meaning each consequent message has a greater and greater impact, an impact that is almost exclusively negative (unless you’re into one of those weirdo fetishes… gross). When left unchecked, toilet based messaging can lead to the degradation of friendships, and even love.

            Some see the ability to fart and poop around his or her significant other as necessary for the development of love. “That’s when you know it’s real,” they say. This assertion is inherently flawed. Pooping, farting, and toileting around your boo thang is the quickest way to desexualize yourself and can lead your bae to subconsciously associate you with horse manure, elephant dung, and other quintessential nasty poopyness things.  Hereby, despite what anyone might say, you should not and must not become complacent enough to defecate in the vicinity of anyone you hope to have sexual exploits with.

           I myself am one of these victims, which is why I’ve launched the “Don’t Poop and Text” campaign. No longer will I allow my “pals” to tarnish the sanctity of my own subconscious. That means you Mr. Craigley and Mr. Ellis, who consistently operate as toileteers. If you call me on the pooper, you aren’t my “friend,” you aren’t my “buddy,” and you aren’t my “guy.” So cut the (poop expletive).