I let my wife read a recent post of mine that centered around writing a book about Honey Buckets (Port-o-potties) of the world.

I could tell she spent most of her time attempting to stifle at least a few snickers, a possible chortle, and most certainly at least one guffaw.  Then, instead of giving me the laughter I so richly deserved, she simply turned and said, “All you ever write about is poop.”

How dare her.

In fact, how dare her times two.

I’ve held back some of my very best poop stories.  Poop stories that would rattle the poop blogging infrastructure to its very core.  She’s insane if she thinks all I write about is poop.

I could have easily told of the time my friend, Steve, was squatting near his fishing pole at Denmark Pond when I told a zinger that made him laugh so hard he pooped a little.  We even had to bury his underpants behind the cattails and send my cousin to fetch Steve’s Dad to bring us home.  Can’t ride back down the canal bank on a bike after a fiasco such as that one!

Or what about the little doozy of a number involving my friend, Joel?  In Junior High, he got his fingers slammed in a car door resulting in him pooping his pants, but you didn’t see me writing about that little number.

Finally, I could have most certainly told of the time that I threw my back out so badly that I couldn’t move from the kitchen floor or call for help.  As I sobbed on the floor, crippled in pain, my 16-year-old Daschund did what any loyal companion of 16 years would do… he walked up next to me and took a dump within a foot of my head.

And there are more.  Believe you me, I’ve got lots of poop stories.  I’m ripe with poop stories.  I’ve got poop stories coming out of my… well… you get the idea.  I just choose to write about other things rather than being just a one-poop-pony.

So do me a favor, would you?  The next time you see my wife on the street, please mention that I write about many things besides poop.

Only write about poop… HA… where does she get off?