Our guest blog post is up at Defeat DD.  Defeat DD is an organization dedicated to fighting diarrheal diseases – diseases which kill 4,000 children a day. Our blog post is a lighthearted story about how we came up with the idea for Flush This Book and how we chose to help out a couple of great nonprofits fighting sanitation problems and diarrheal diseases. Check it out

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New Funny Not Slutty Guest Blog: The Poop Alibi

8 Dec

Funny Not Slutty, the hilarious website dedicated to funny women, has generously posted another guest blog post. Women need to just say no to poop alibis. Poop and fart proudly! Check out our post .  Please peruse the site for more comedy created by women like this or this and most definitely check out this .

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Bet you wish we'd been into Post-it notes and not poop, huh?

I would like to apologize for putting a pile of human shit on your front seat in 1994. I really don’t know what else to say except that it seemed like a good idea at the time. Like most boys in their late teens, I fell victim to groupthink, and my group was just into that kind of prank. In our defense, there was a lot of pot involved in the strategy sessions we conducted during our munchie-induced pigouts.

Twenty-four hours before we dropped our nasty payload on your unsuspecting upholstery, we were passing a doobie and discussing the wonders of the human body. How does corn become reconstituted in your poo after you’ve chewed it thoroughly? Why does spinach snake through your dookie like lost caterpillars? If asparagus makes your pee reek, what will it do to your doo-doo? Does grape Kool-Aid really turn your turds the shade of nuclear waste? You know, deep philosophical stuff. While we pondered these questions, our pack leader, we called him “The General,” leapt to his feet excitedly.

“Dude, we should totally try these theories out. We’ll all eat now and try to synchronize our movements, and then we’ll share the data. We’ll have to do this at Frank’s house; he has the most toilets.”

But another soldier among us piped up and suggested it would be better, and funnier, to take turns crapping in a paper bag and then dump the contents on somebody else’s driver’s seat. I am not proud to say that soldier was me, but in the whirlwind of the moment, it felt as if I were contributing to science and comedy. It was a double whammy of historic proportions.

We accomplished our task, as you well know, and the results were astounding. Corn, no matter if ground to a pulp between teeth or popped whole like precious yellow pills, will riddle your log with rows of plump kernels that could pass for a half-eaten cob. Spinach will not always snake; it will sometimes clump in swampy masses that cling to the outside of a poop slug. Asparagus will evoke the pungent aroma of beached animals rotting in the sun. And yes, grape Kool-Aid will turn a turd a shade of sickly neon green.

Like mad scientists, we collected our specimens and assembled them into a quadruple threat whose stench rivaled even the most fetid of malfunctioning sewage pumps. A stench we bequeathed to you.

For the record, it’s not as if we singled you out for any personal reason. Quite frankly, your car door was the only one unlocked in its driveway that evening when we executed our plan. Had you locked your door, some other poor sap would have had to deal with our ‘gift.’ When I was a stupid kid, I didn’t think about the consequences of my actions. But now, as a more mature adult, I can imagine the aftermath of that morning’s commute….

To find out what this poor schmuck endured that morning, read the rest of “Dear Car Seat Victim” in our ebook.  Foundon Amazon for kindle, for the nook at Barnes and Noble or just type in “Flush This Book” at Apple’s iBookstore.  If you don’t have an ereader followto get the ebook for your PC.

Want more poop pranks?  We found some for you.  Enjoy!

 

 

 

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Christina Ruotolo is a published poet and prose writer and owner The Ruotolo Agency: PR & Literary Consulting.  She also suffers from IBS and is a confessed Imodium addict.

Last fall, my boyfriend, Craig, got stuck without a ride in Myrtle Beach. I had just enjoyed a dinner of greasy food and a large iced tea and was gearing up for a night of watching movies and enjoying a nice evening alone, when the phone rang at 9pm.

Craig needed me to pick him up. Myrtle Beach was close to four hours away. I’m not sure why I didn’t just make him take the bus (probably because that thought didn’t cross my mind). I put on my comfy driving clothes, grabbed our dog for safety, put gas in the car, grabbed a roll of TP (just in case) and headed down the lonely stretch of country road toward the beach.

About forty-five minutes into my journey, just me and the dog, my stomach started rumbling and doing its usual IBS flip-flop. I thought it was just nerves because I don’t enjoy driving at night, and if you saw some of the areas you have to go on the way to Myrtle Beach, visions of any scary movie would come to mind.

A few moments later the urge to vomit came over me. I had to lurch the car onto the side of the road and wretch for ten minutes while the dog looked at me in horror. Whatever greasy meal I had eaten was now out of me, or so I thought. I pulled myself together and made it another thirty minutes into a tiny town where I threw up again—this time in a park with barely enough time to open the car door.  Another thirty minutes down the road, I threw up in a church parking lot.

I was a hot mess and crying, but I was already half-way to the beach—there was no way I was leaving Craig without a ride. I had come this far; I just had to keep going. I started downing Pepto pills and praying that I would not throw up anymore. The dog kept giving me funny looks; I think he was worried about me.

It was already midnight, and I was driving down a two-lane road in the middle of freaking nowhere when my urge to go to the bathroom grew so severe, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do.  Once again, I pulled the car over to the shoulder of the road, turned the headlights off, pushed the dog in the back seat and jumped in the passenger seat, barely getting my butt out the car door before all hell broke loose.

While I relieved myself, I spotted a truck coming down the road.  First I was scared he would see me with my ass hanging out the car door, but then I was scared he would think I needed help and stop. I cleaned up as fast as I could and headed over to the driver side of the car, but when I went to pull the door handle to get in my side of the car, it was locked.

To make matters worse, the car was running with my cell phone and dog inside. How the hell did I manage to get myself into this predicament? Ahh, yes I remember now, I have freaking IBS, and today it was beating the shit out of me, from both ends. I just broke down and cried while my dog pressed his face up to the window, looking at me like I was insane.

Then I began to think of all the horror movies that I had watched, and I thought about all the Jethro-looking men in trucks that would come kidnap me, leaving behind my running car and a barking dog with a pile of shit next to it. Maybe the police would come and think that I had run away from embarrassment alone.  But when the cops deduced what had taken place, I would be the laughing stock of Hicksville.

I looked up to the heavens, put my hands in the air and yelled, “REALLY?!”

Then I prayed that there was a rock somewhere because I was not going to let IBS win this time. I would find a way to get in that car if I had to use my damn shoe to break the window. I walked over to the other side of the car, avoiding you know what and HAIL MARY.  The passenger door was not shut all the way.  I jumped for joy, jumped over my shit and jumped back in my car and cried even harder.  I was so happy to be back in my car. I had forgotten that I could still be kidnapped, but the stench of my shit was probably both a killer and bear deterrent.

One hour and thirty minutes later, I hugged my boyfriend and told him my incredible story.  Four hours after that, we finally made it back home.

I told Craig if he ever got stuck again, he better learn to hitchhike, cause this ass ain’t going to pick him up no matter what.

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For more info on Christina check out her blog here: and her agency here: And more info on a book Christina worked on that benefits Haiti:

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Jane avoids shopping like the plague and will only go when necessary.  Heidi enjoys the thrill of hunting for good deals.  This is how they weigh in on The Mother of All Shopping Days: Black Friday.

Jane:  I think I might be missing something essential in the genetic make-up of the American female, because I could give a shit about shopping.  My girlfriends call me up and ask me to go shopping or to attend  shopping parties.  This is like asking me if I would like a root canal without anesthesia.  The invite always makes me feel awful because the invitee is always so excited about it.

“It will be fun!” they promise.

Sometimes there is even a girlish squeal that accompanies the invitation.   If I shoot the idea down, I feel like the Grinch who shot Santa.  But, seriously, for me there really is no thrill in it.

Shopping is an act I only perform when necessary.  There is occasional joy, but only when I have stumbled upon the ideal gift for someone else, or I’ve happened upon the elusive “perfect jeans.”   Recreational shopping?  Browsing? No thanks.   So, it should come as no surprise that my attitude towards Black Friday is a big thumbs down—lining up around the block at the crack of dawn in anticipation of potential deals?

No.  Freakin.’ Way.

One of the many reasons for my aversion is that schlepping from store to store activates my shit reflex.  This reflex kicks into high gear in Target and grocery stores specifically.  I don’t know why.

I refer to this phenomenon as S.S.S.:  Shopping Shit Syndrome.

Heidi:  I too suffer from S.S.S.  I don’t share Jane’s complete disdain for shopping, but while I relish the hunt for a bargain, I am dreading a potential S.S.S. attack during my upcoming Best Buy Black Friday shopping mission.

Can you imagine what those bathrooms are going to be like? All those people crammed into the stores just a day after stuffing their faces with turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing and pies galore? As they say, what goes in must come out and on Friday, all those colons will be readying for their once a year colossal craps. When their bowels decide, “it’s time!” guess where those people will be?

This is why I’m dreading my outing to Best Buy. Sure, we’ll get a good deal on a new laptop for Chris, but what if my own bowels decide, “it’s time!” just as everyone else’s colon is doing the same thing. Not only will I have to wait in line, but I’m sure I’ll have to wait in line for a destroyed bathroom stall. And God forbid if the stores don’t prepare with enough toilet paper for the inevitable onslaught, an unfortunate situation could turn into Hell on Earth with fights over toilet paper, not laughing Tickle Me Elmos.

Call us crazy but we don’t fear the crowds of the checkout lines, but the lines of the restrooms and what awaits us when we get there.

So, as Jane stays home on Black Friday and I brave the crowds to get one of those great deals, we hope you escape the Shopping Shit Syndrome that plagues us so regularly.

Do you suffer from Shopping Shit Syndrome? Tell us about it and feel free to join the conversation on Twitter: #shoppingshitsyndrome

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Also, in case you haven’t heard, we have a new humor ebook out, Flush This Book: True Tales of Bodily Malfunctions for only 99 cents that benefits the World Toilet Organization, a great nonprofit that strives to improve sanitation conditions around the globe. Check it out

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