The One With His Life In The Crapper

This is contributed from a guest blogger sharing her crappy experience. 

Through all the wild, wacky, bourbon-ed and blurred nights of nookie (that I thought might possibly lead to something more), I have managed to stumble into some gems of men. Sometimes these nights led to a date or two. More often than not though, they left me shame-faced and learning to treat men as they often treat women: ignoring phone calls until the wee hours when the liquid libido-enhancer has kicked in, getting in one last hook-up before breaking off a "relationship," and going for the weekend one-two punch (one Friday and one Saturday).   

* the panty dropper of cologne*

By the time my birthday rolled around in July of 2008, I had once again ensnared a "winner" of a man. He drank, he smoked, and he visited the bathroom for some aromatic excursions hourly. I met this swooning chap where all women meet the man of their dreams: the South Port Sports Bar on Army Post Road. For those of you not familiar with Des Moines and it's ranking of "sides," South Port is on the "South-siiieeeeeede" of Des Moines, and I would say that it's deep South. On that fated night, when I ventured into that bar, I picked up the classiest of the super classy Southsiders.   He donned an Affliction button up shirt and wore yellow, motorcycle riding glasses on his head.   He smelled of Curve for Men, and I knew instantly that I wanted to make this douchebag mine. So, with a bat of the eyelashes before leaving this muddy watering hole, I caught his attention, and we exchanged phone numbers.  

Only a week passed before I heard from him, so I knew he was a keeper. I invited him over to my residence which was, at the time, the 1/2 level of a 1 1/2 story house. We had some drinks, and I began to notice that he frequented the bathroom quite often and for no less than 20 minutes each outing. I shrugged it off. Perhaps he had just dined on a gas station tuna fish sandwich and his digestion was not acting appropriately. We partook in some extra-curricular that evening, and I was grossly disappointed in the performance he put in. Turns out that would not be the only thing gross in this relationship.  

After a 45-minute play date with the toilet the next morning, he finally left. I let the room air out for a while. When I finally braved the small bath quarters, I saw that my toilet paper supply had shrunk at least two full rolls in the 10 hours that he had been in my house! I don't go with the thin toilet paper either, this was Cottonelle that was hemorrhaged to the sewers of Des Moines.   

We went out a few more times, and the dedication he showed to the restrooms of any given establishment far out-weighed any dedication he showed to me. Whenever he came over, I had to make sure there was several backup rolls available for him. Between his smoking and colon evacuations, I hardly saw him when we did go out. I tried to look past his physical flaw, but it turns out that wasn't the only "crappy" thing about him. He just was not a nice guy.

It finally came time for his swan song, and it was a stinker. On the evening of my birthday, he met up with my friends and me about an hour before bar close. Though he is not a man of many words, he proceeded to talk shit about me to my friends when I wasn't around and then sat at the bar alone for the rest of the evening. By night's end, all that I had on my mind was getting my "present" and getting him gone. We left and headed toward the cemetery. We laid down a blanket among the tombstones near the pond and proceeded to have lousy, disappointing sex. After less than a minute passed, the misery ended and we had to evacuate the area so he could evacuate his bowels. Happy birthday to me!

I never spoke to him again, nor did I ever frequent South Port again. While I'm sure that his digestion's uproarious antics were not his fault, it led me to believe that karma truly does exist. For every shitty thing that came out his mouth... it exited 10-fold out his ass.