Introducing: POOP CRATE — My Version of LOOT CRATE for My Fellow Shit Humor Enthusiasts

As I mentioned in a previous blog, our monthly LOOT CRATE arrival turns my life and home upside-down with the useless pop culture tzotchkes that Dave Dorman and Jack enjoy, and I have to find extra space (often the circular file) to store. Occasionally, I’ll find a gem in there, like the BREAKING BAD Los Pollos Hermanos apron, but that’s extremely rare.

Admittedly, my sense of humor is that of a 13-year-old boy, but I know I’m not alone in this. To witness, there’s the recent “It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia” episode–with a guest appearance from my friend @TJHoban–which included enticing someone to eat a shit sandwich.

There’s the recent episode of Better Call Saul–I had no less than 3 friends texting, alerting me to it–where Saul Goodman was asked to represent the inventor of a new talking toilet for children.

There’s the Seinfeld episode where Jerry rides in first class, eating the best sundae of his life while we see Elaine’s cheeks blown out like Louis Armstrong as she holds her breath, trying to use the restroom in coach after a particularly sulfurous passenger.

And then there’s this no-longer-private message on Facebook recently, from my closest cousin:

From my cousin Jeff, whose gift to me one Christmas was the "Coffee Makes Me Poop" mug.

From my cousin Jeff, whose gift to me one Christmas was the infamous “COFFEE MAKES ME POOP” mug.

I’ve passed this humor down to another generation. Much to Dave’s chagrin, our son’s favorite talking stuffed toy as a baby was my South Park Mr. Hankey The Christmas Poo …“Hidey Ho, Neighbor!”

It occurred to me, given the dozens of poop-related items I am sent via Facebook, text and email daily, that I should start curating these items into a monthly tzotchke box called POOP CRATE. I encourage all of you, my kindred spirits out there, to pay me a monthly fee to curate and ship them these scatological comedy props. Here is what my theater of the mind imagines my first monthly $19.95 shipment would include:

The Shitbit — Like the FitBit, but instead of tracking you burning calories, it tracks you burning mules.

Remember when The Weather Channel was MTV for old people? Well, here's the FitBit equivalent.

Remember when The Weather Channel was MTV for old people? Well, here’s the FitBit equivalent.

Poo-Pourri — An oily spray for your toilet, to ensure your smelliest poops are stealthy.

Now THERE's the innovative stuff that makes America great.

Now THERE’s the innovative stuff that makes America great.

The Flatulence Deodorizing Pad — I especially love the warning that it’s non-returnable. That made me giggle like a school girl!

A big hit for all of those resident's of Florida's The Villages, who are back in the dating scene.

A big hit–I imagine–for all of those senior residents of Florida’s THE VILLAGES, who are back in the dating scene.

If you are reading this and would like to be on my mailing list for the launch of POOP CRATE, ping me here! You will be #1 for #2!

November 6, 2015 addition: My friend Mike just suggest my new slogan: “POOP Crate: Better than your usual crap.”


LOOT CRATE: The Bane of My Existence

I went to get my cards read by psychic RoseWolf of a while back, and I knew she was truly accurate when she said to me, “I’m getting that the decor in your home looks more like a…MAN CAVE?!?” With all of the comic book convention tzotchkes, art, pop culture collections, art books, and work samples Dave Dorman has amassed over his 35-year career, outside of the Smithsonian Institute, there’s no facility existing to properly display all. of. that. shtuff. Oh, wait–there’s Warehouse 13, if only it was real.

So…you can just imagine my reaction when we started getting these LOOT CRATE boxes in the mail every month — it was like a geek menstrual cycle, and equally a pain in my ass. Every time Dave or Jack’s back was turned, I was throwing away these irritating, tiny collectibles into the circular file (which Dave and Jack never seemed to miss) in my attempt to maintain some semblance of decluttering. Outside of the Legends of Zelda terry cloth wrist band, which I used for tennis–and to wipe my brow as I labored over throwing away more LOOT CRATE crap–there was nothing in these LOOT CRATE boxes of “exclusives” worth the $20 a month. But this month, I have to hand it to Loot Crate. They actually sent something that I like. Something with purpose. Introducing my new Breaking Bad apron:

The BREAKING BAD Los Pollo Hermanos Apron, courtesy of LOOT CRATE

My new Breaking Bad Los Pollo Hermanos Apron, courtesy of LOOT CRATE

Mind you, Dave doesn’t enjoy my “clean eating,” so I’m rarely cooking for anyone but me or Jack, but if Jack’s occasional box of Mac & Cheese splashes up, at least my Batman tees are now protected. However, Dave’s t-shirt collection and mine are like constantly warring nations, fighting for closet space territory.

Good thing Dave’s out of town 3 of 4 weekends in September so those, too, mysteriously find their way into the circular file…

Rebel Without A Pause: As Breaking Bad’s Skylar White Sez…”Jesus, I didn’t get the beige memo.”

Once upon a time, pre-Dave Dorman, I dated a corporate exec whom I’ll call “The Senator,” because he had what my friends described as “Senator Hair.” You know the look–parted on one side, conservative, never a hair out of place. As a perfectionist, he desired me fitting into the mold of a corporate exec’s wife–minus the marriage part–and I did my level best to comply. I filled my closet with white oxford shirts and beige khaki slacks, fresh off the pages of a Dilbert cartoon. I severely curbed my longshoreman speak. But…as anyone who truly knows me can attest, I can only behave for so long…the inner rebel always rises to the surface. The moment I’m told I can’t do something, that’s when I have to do it. If you told me I couldn’t snort a piano, I’d be breaking mine down, running it through the food processor, key by key.

In my first stint as a "corporate wife" type, I felt like Skylar White in Breaking Bad who famous said, "I didn't get the beige memo."

In my 2nd stint as a “corporate wife” type, I felt like Skylar White in Breaking Bad who famously said at a high net worth party, “Jesus, I didn’t get the beige memo.”

One night The Senator informed me that we were joining the rest of the executive staff for a “corporate retreat,” and that I (and the other corporate wives) would be meeting the male execs at some undisclosed location a couple of hours outside of Chicago. I was told I would be riding in a separate bus with the corporate wives, stopping for a leisurely lunch along the way before arriving at the final destination.

Once The Senator was out of earshot, I was on the Bat Phone with my BFF and favorite co-conspirator Marovich. I told her the sitch, and she immediately began plotting with me. Marovich suggested my white oxford shirt and khakis would go well with a transparent beach bag filled with low-brow literature–National Enquirers, Soldier of Fortune magazines, Playgirl. I suggested rub-on tattoos. Game ON.

The corporate wives and I boarded the bus, and so the odyssey began. After our leisurely lunch, I suggested to the ring leader and CEO’s wife, “Wouldn’t it be hilarious if we convinced the hubs we stopped off at a tattoo parlor on the way?” (Mind you, this was the mid-’90s when tattoos weren’t as commonplace.) Once she recovered from her shock at my impertinence, she actually embraced the idea! I couldn’t believe my luck. I showed her my loot–the 50 rub-on tattoos in my bag. Before I knew it, I was whisked away to the washroom of this restaurant where I began rubbing tattoos on middle-aged boobs as fast as I could go. There was literally a line out the door. These women clearly needed a little spice in their lives, and on this trip, I unwittingly became their Srirachi sauce.

Our bus arrived at the secret squirrel destination a good 30 minutes late, and we were instantly admonished by the CEO. It seems that in corporate land, there’s this thing called “a schedule,” (yes, I’m doing the air quotes with my fingers) which is very important to this genus of mammal. The ring leader wife gently protested that we had made an unscheduled stop along the way, and though I didn’t choreograph this, the wives all revealed their tattoos in perfect comedic timing as she finished with the words,”…to a tattoo parlor.” You’ve never seen so many disgusted, horrified caucasian male facial expressions. It was EPIC. The Senator just knew I was somehow behind this. I felt him giving me the stink eye as I avoided eye contact, fighting my smirk as best I could.

Later in the evening, as my new BFFs and I were karaoke-ing, my heart swelled with love for these women and their moment of micro-rebellion. In another era, I’m convinced they would have been right there with me protesting our right to vote, or aiding and abetting the Underground Railroad. Hey, however micro, it’s still progress. On that trip, we became The Sisterhood of the Traveling Khaki Pants.

My mother's worst nightmare: Me with a microphone.

My mother’s worst nightmare: Me with a microphone.