Going back to the place you grew up in is an extraordinary experience. While there, you may find yourself being a little bit more sentimental than you are used to. Walking around with eyes closed, taking in all the sights, sounds and smells. The sensations touch something deep inside you. Ancient feelings rushed to the forefront of your mind, born anew. You notice that, for better or worse, your home will always be a part of you, having a profound influence on who you are today, and what you will become. On my recent trip back to the place of my upbringing, being there conjured up an unexpected memory. Something that had happened while I was very young, perhaps eight or nine, which had stayed hidden from in my sub conscience for years. Yet, when it finally came back, I remembered it as clear and as vividly as it were yesterday. An event so storied and powerful, it’s a wonder I even forgot.
I almost ate poop.
Now I know what you’re thinking. No, I wasn’t some savage going throughout the house, lurking in the shadows behind the toilet, pouncing just before the flush to gorge on the delicious morsels. I was a semi-normal child. I didn’t even like poop or the act of pooping, and for good reason! Not only did my dad constantly think that I was constipated, giving me way too many suppositories, but I was also afraid the blob was going to come down and eat me while I was alone in the bathroom. It was a double poop hating whammy jam.
So eating poop, yes. It started with a deep love of chocolate. Oh, I was a vicious little fuck. I would climb over mountains of tables and counters, sneak into ever-watched keeps of highly secured cabinets, all to reach my prized chocolate, or chocolate cookies, or whatever we had in the house. I would sneak two for breakfast, five for lunch, and ten for dinner. I would go shopping with my mother with the sole purpose of getting to that choclate heaven, the super market, and raid the aisles with the skill and precisian of a Roman Centurion. If we didn’t have a suitable treat in the house, I would, like MacGyver, create a concoction of semi-sweet chocolate chips in a spoon of chunky peanut butter…or six, a suitable snack for the weary chocolate madman. I could of been slightly chubby then, but shit, I wanted my chocolate. Bitches knew not to get in my way.
One day I found a chocolate chip on the floor. I was ecstatic. It was like finding buried treasure. I quickly, without thought as to how long it had been on the floor or how it had gotten there, picked it up and ate it. It was delicious. I was the chocolate conjurer, a chocolate pirate.
A couple weeks later I found yet another chocolate chip on the floor. “Sweet! Another chocolate chip!” I thought to myself, “The chocolate pirate strikes again! Come here my little treasure”. I picked up the chip, was about to put it into my mouth, and for some reason that I cannot comprehend, I stopped. I looked at the chip. It looked like the last one I had eaten, slightly deformed. Probably due to being left on the floor and stepped on for the past couple of days, but that shouldn’t of been a problem. Why I smelt the chip I do not know, but I did. It quite the smell I expected. I smelt again, and again, and again. Wait, no, was it…yes, It was…poop. I threw it back on the floor, happy. I had caught myself before putting the poop in my mouth. It didn’t deter me in the slightest. “My sisters, of course”, I thought, “The chocolate pirate evades yet another trap from the Kraken’s vile butt”. I was a genius. Great memory, huh? Ahh, being home again.
Now I realize that there is great attention paid to the similarities between chocolate and poop. I feel that many of you, the awesome readers of this blog, may have their own confusing poop for chocolate stories themselves; Whether it be finding a nice warm turd in a baking pan, or being presented with a brown present from your son or daughter. I want to know these stories! I happen to have grown a great appreciation for the ever chancing brown substance that we create. Please, feel free to share in the comments section!
Until next time!
-Maxim
What a great vacation spot! Don’t you remember being on the road with your parents, seeing something on the side of the road, and having to stop and check it out? What better than a tipped over coal truck! Free futons and pillows to boot! Sweeeeeet.
The worst? Don’t you mean… the best? How can you put that label on sailing through the tropical ocean on a fucking dolphin!? Not only that, but the bitch in the front is like, “Hey, look! No hands” and shit. Just try and beat that. Try.
The age old tale of forgetting something incredibly important that you had to do while already on the vacation. This specific example would definitely call for the cancellation of said vacation and quick return back to Shanksville.
Last, but not least, we have this joyful bunch. Which one of you doesn’t know what this photo is of? I loathe you, by the way. For those who do, congratulations. Of course, it’s a photo of the Griswolds of National Lampoon’s Vacation fame; hands down the best vacationing family of all time. Proof:
Maxim's Madness 