Meet: Roberta Guggenheim

After telling the world about m.... er, Anonymous' tale with the Inbred Ass Ninja, a dear friend of mine, who has asked to go by the surname of Roberta Guggenheim {apparently was her name when she worked retail and someone was going to tattle} told me via facebook that she had a few butt stories to share.  I knew at that moment that I was going to need to share this with the world - or 35 of you mother fuckers, at least.  I asked her to be a guest blogger and not only did she agree - she sent me three whole stories.

Here goes nothing:

Butt story #1 --- The Ghost Shart

            I am a person who typically has stomach issues- nausea, diarrhea, the whole Pepto Bismol jingle. For the reasons listed, I cannot eat at many new restaurants. The most recent restaurant do traumatize my wittle bewwy (I have a toddler, it slips) was Genghis Grill. I went with my husband, who loves it, and his best friend who was visiting from out-of-town. The whole bit about this “restaurant” is to give you a bowl, herd you into a line where you fill the bowl with RAW MEAT (you have to scoop it out with tongs yourself), veggies, and rice, and then hand it over to some chef guy who fries it all up in front of you and gives you your bowl back. Sounds… cheap? doesn’t it. I don’t know how this place is a chain restaurant.

            The food wasn’t that bad itself, but I think the whole process where I got the opportunity to squish some raw meat with sweaty tongs just moments before I ate was too much. Needless to say, I picked at my food until it was time to go. Once in the parking lot, it hit me. I was carrying my baby in his carrier and went to say good-bye to my husbands friend, and I sharted. I quickly threw my child into the car and jumped in the front seat and waved out the window. My husband got into the car and before he could open his mouth I shouted, “We have to get to a bathroom NOW!!” We were 45 minutes from our house, so I called my dad who lives 10 minutes from the restaurant. My step-mom answered the phone, and God bless her, she’s a little new to English and couldn’t understand what “shart” meant. After much yelling and her many “Whaaaaa’s?,” she told me to come over.

            My husband drove quickly, but cautiously, laughing the whole way over there. When he pulled into the driveway, I ran out of the car, literally holding my butt cheeks together to prevent further spillage, and went to do the two polite knocks on the door before I ran into the house and blew up their bathroom. As soon as my hand hit the glass, A BIRD flew out of the wreath attached to the front door and fluttered in my face! Apparently, I trapped him in their entryway because it was about 12 seconds of constant fluttering until I ducked (which is hard to do when you’re already sharty) and he finally flew off. I finally made my way to the bathroom, and… nothing. No shit. No shart. Clean panties. All of the taunting courtesy of my husband, near-death bird-in-face experience, and the sheer embarrassment of thinking I crapped my pants for nothing.

I posted about this story a while ago but needed to share it again.  Mainly because the term "shart" makes me laugh uncontrollably.  The idea of sharting makes me laugh even harder and hearing terms of phantom sharting?  Well, I laugh so hard that a pee a little and stop breathing.

Butt story #2 --- I didn’t ask for that…

            As a married woman, I appreciate the availability of sex, but hate the predictability of it at times. Sometimes, a woman just needs something a little special- y’know what I’m saying, y’know what I mean? Apparently, so does my husband. One afternoon, while derin’ it in the style of le doggy, my husband “slipped” and jabbed me straight in the b-hole. This is not okay. It caught me so off guard that I lunged forward, face first, into the wall. (We don’t have a headboard, thank God… if not for just this one tragic experience, I’m glad we’re ghetto as hell and do not have a fucking headboard.) My husband must have not picked up on the subtlety of my reaction (which included, “You’re junk is bigger than my poop!”), so he tried to keep going with it. I immediately started crying because my butt hurt so badly from the surprise jab. I rolled over to yell at him and he freaked, yelling “Oh my God! Your face!” I ran into the bathroom and my nose was bleeding! (I found out later that my bunghole was, too… Oh what this asshole did to my poor asshole.) Luckily, my nose wasn’t broken, and it didn’t even leave a bruise. That didn’t stop me from taunting my husband about it, though. “Oh, you like to put your junk it butts, do you? What, what?” Also, in true ‘me’ fashion, I told everyone who walked through our door for the next two days the story (I like telling stories), hoping the embarrassment of seeing people’s reactions would deter him from “slipping” ever again. It has, which just proves that humiliating your husband can be the right move for Uranus.

I don't want Roberta to ever be in pain but I think it would be funny as shit if she HAD broken her nose. I can see her being asked by a random passerby "what happened to your nose?" to which she would undoubtedly reply "My husband put his junk in my butt."

Butt story #3 --- Clogged up

            By this point, I literally had not pooped for 3 days. Blaming my husband, I told him I couldn’t poo because he jammed his thingy all up in my butt and clogged my pipes. His solution: Taco Bell. So, I had him go pick up some almost Mexican garbage from Taco Hell. In anticipation of the events assured to follow, we sat down for a lovely dinner. And my, what a de-clogger it was. I ate one half of a taco and couldn’t make it to the bathroom before I actually, one-hundred-percent-real-life sharted. It wasn’t the disaster I thought sharting would be (thanks to my trusty thong), but it happened, nonetheless. It was a relief and a tragedy all at once, and probably the only time any normal, sober person actually welcomed a shart.

(I’m sure I’ll have more butt stories in my life, so I will forward them to you for the rest of time.)

Tampa, a college friend of mine, once said "This one time! I took it in the butt! I haven't pooped the same since!"  If I knew then what I knew now, my only would have been to hold a powerful fist in the air  and scream preach on.

Thank you so much, R.G.  I adore you.