Category Archives: scatological talk

“Poop Across the Genders”

I just couldn’t get a good photo here of what I want to show you. What you need to know is that this is a page from one of Girl’s “fast word” books from the past school year (first grade), wherein she was to practice writing certain words of the week by placing them into context and creating her own sentences. For example, if a word of the week was milk, she had to write, “Kee-rist, do I hate the milk of all hooved beasts,” or something equally precocious, in her little book.

What you can’t so much see in this photo is that her third-to-last sentence makes me retract my previous assertion that mostly it’s the little boys who are scatalogical. I know, I know, so many of you tried to set me straight, but now I’m convinced that little girls love da poop, too, although they are more metaphorical about it.

“So what did she write on this faintly-chicken-scratched page?” you ask. You poor, blind sod; I can help.

For her beloved teacher, Mrs. Anderson, our Girl composed the sentence: “I like his sh!t.”

What’s even more troubling about this is that Mrs. Anderson then reviewed the page and quite specifically put a purple smiley face above the sentence in question. Could it be that Mrs. Anderson likes his sh!t, too?

I had no idea.

And who is he?

And what’s so special about his particular junk?
————

Obviously, the sentiment in this sentence came about due to the acceptance of, even urging for, emerging writers to use creative spelling, and Girl, not so fond of the letter “r,” wrote sh!t instead of “shirt.”

But in my leetle head, I like to think of her uttering this sentence when she’s 14 and is scoping out her latest crush (he’s got sloppily-long brown hair and is playing air guitar at the end of the corridor) while leaning against her locker and gossiping with her best friends, LeeAnn and Trinity. They’ve just asked Girl why she has the hots for this guy–you know, Chess Club president Walter Schlinkman.

The Girl’s answer will be simple and succinct, drawing upon a memory from first grade:

“I like his sh!t.”

A Basic Civil Right: Being Scatalogical

 


“A Basic Civil Right: Being Scatalogical”

What is it about little boys?

Why are the colon and its emissions so profoundly, continually hilarious to wee males?

These days, my four-year-old (who, in his defense, is heavily under the influence of a cadre of neighborhood seven-year-old fellas) toodles around the house, absentmindedly singing a little ditty of his own composition:

“I’m a poopy head/I’m a poop-poopy-pooper/I’m a poopy head
Hey, Mom? / You’re a poopy-pooper, too/We’re all poop”

Sure, it’s charming enough, and I’d wipe a quiet tear from my eye if Jordin from American Idol belted it out on her first album,

but, really? Enough with the fecal talk, okay?

There’s just something about testosterone + humor that unerringly = da butt.

Case in point:

Last night, I was reading a book to the kids called Hello USA! It’s a dumb Hello Kitty book, but we’re stretching here in the house to meet our seven-year-old daughter’s fascination with maps, continents, oceans–all things social studyish, in fact–and Hello Kitty has been workin’ the geography for us this week.


The book goes through each of the 50 states (get this: PLUS D.C.! Bonus!), giving little factoids about each one. I now know that

the Mid-America Windmill Museum is in Kendallville, Indiana

the Brown Thrasher is the state bird of Georgia

the pop-up toaster was invented in 1919 in Stillwater, Minnesota

the world’s largest buffalo sculpture is in Jamestown, North Dakota

the world’s first alpine chairlift was built in 1936 in the world’s first ski resort in Sun Valley, Idaho

and the octopi found in Puget Sound are the world’s largest

The whimsical overview of Americana crashed and burned, though, when we got to Alabama. On that page, I no sooner read the words “Birmingham Civil Rights Institute” than I was interrupted with

“You said toot!”

Giggles ensued. And again, “Mom said toot!”

And again with the toot. And again.

Plus one more.

A few minutes after the intial joy and amusement, “institoot” permanently entered the family vernacular; see, each night, after I get the kids into bed, they holler out for their pappy (who is generally downstairs wilting some bok choy and broiling some marinated flank steak on skewers) that it is time for him to come upstairs for squeezes and smooches. Of late, the kiddles have decided to beckon him not with a resounding “DAAAAAADDDDY,” but rather by calling out for him with some cool-sounding word. To wit, they have been heard bellering “Onomatopoeia” to get him to come upstairs these last weeks. However, as of last night, thanks to The Kitty of Helloishness, the Girl has started hollering–yes, quite fun–“Okefenokee.” But the Wee Niblet?

Yea, he now just wails “Institoooooooot.”

Go, Birmingham. Go, civil rights. Go, Da Butt.

Makin’ Martin Luther King, Jr. proud,
I remain,

The Wincing Mother of a Boy
—————————————-

Oh, and hey, Jazz, this is reason 478 why you can be glad you didn’t have kids.

And male readers? ‘Fess up: you never have stopped finding this stuff to be the pinnacle of humor, have you? I mean, I shouldn’t wait, with breath bated, for this “phase” to fade away, right? Realistically, the lad will be pretty much tuned into the poop channel ’round the clock for the next three decades, ja?

If that’s the case, I have one word: crap.