I pride myself on being a very clean person. I shower every day, even on weekends! And I’ve been known to shower upwards of three times a day. Showers are fucking great. No one bothers me. I can sing the entire new BRMC album to myself. And I can lather up my balls real good. At my gym, they offer free shampoo and conditioner dispensers in the shower. And, since it’s free, I take advantage. I like to squirt about a pint of shampoo into my hair, just to see how much lather I can build up. Answer: a lot.
About a month ago I’m taking my usual 8-minute shower. I come out of the shower, dry off, then hang up my towel. My wife comes into the bathroom. She grabs the towel. There’s a little brown spot on it.
“Hey. What’s this?”
I dunno. Probably dirt.
“What dirt? You weren’t outside.”
Are you insinuating what I think you are? Listen, lady: I wash my ass thoroughly every shower. When I’m done lathering up my hair, I take the leftover lather in my hand and jam it right up my yin yang. Then I make a second go-round with the shower poof after that. And I get in there. No surface gliding for me. I dig around and make sure my crack is completely scrubbed clean of all fecal material and potential Nerd-sized dingleberries. So how dare you accuse me of being unclean in that fashion.
She does the laundry and the spot’s gone. A week later, I’m showering again and go to dry off. This time, I’m alone. Mrs. Drew is nowhere around. I hang up my towel. There’s another brown spot on the towel. Since the wife wasn’t around, I examined the spot closely. It was brown. I went to sniff.
I pooped on my towel.
God dammit. If there’s anything I hate, it’s when my wife assumes something terrible about me and turns out to be correct. This, of course, happens all the time. It was clear what had happened here: God (the greatest hater of them all) had magically placed some extra poop in my butt even after my thorough cleaning to make me look bad. I didn’t want to be known as a towelshitter for the rest of my marriage. So I went to throw all the towels in the laundry. My wife notices this. My wife notices everything.
“What are you washing the towels for?”
Uhhhhhhhh, because I love you?
“Seriously. What’s up?”
All right! All right! I confess! I fucking wiped doodoo right on the towel. Fuck!
I don’t even have to tell you that the exact same fucking thing happened again a week later. And this time: the poop didn’t wash out all the way, so we had to throw the towel out. So now we have a new towel that serves as a constant reminder that I was somehow negligent enough to wipe poop on my own towel three separate times. Guhhhhhhhhh…
I’m proud to say that new towel has remained poop-free ever since. You’d be amazed at what steel wool can come up with.