Throwing Poo

It’s official.  Due to my petulance, indolence, and specious syntax (guess who downloaded a new thesaurus?), I have successfully driven away any lingering readers.  Finally, after three long, uncomfortably scatological years, Throwing Poo has realized its destiny: becoming the tree falling in the forest that no one hears.  Or, more aptly, the log falling in the bowl that no one flushes.  Either way, the point is that there is no one left but you and me, and you’re already checking your email, aren’t you? 

The good news is that having rid ourselves of all that dead weight, we can finally start having some real fun.  Just you and me.  Of course, we’ll need some industrial-grade epoxy, an albino midget (a hairless cat will do in a pinch), and a safe word.  Whadda ya say? 

Too busy?!  Fine.  Be that way.  That just means more sticky midget fun for me.  

Anyhoo, so Nerdy Squirrel, Esq. and I are planning a vacation.  She wanted to pick a destination where we could hike through a lush, exotic countryside, and I wanted one where I could incite raging envy among the orthodontically-challenged yokels by shamelessly flashing my newly-fangled smile (the braces came off last week, and now I’m as pretty a girl as you’ll ever meet).   After much debate we settled on Ireland, but mostly because we’re drinkers and big fans of religious intolerance.

Having made our decision, you’d expect that a savvy traveler like me would be focused on building up his alcohol and itchy sweater tolerances, and learning all the really useful dirty Gaelic words.  Not so.  Ever since Nerdy showed me our Ireland itinerary three weeks ago, I’ve been unable to focus on anything but Irish poop puns. 

As anyone who knows me knows, I’m fanatical over foul language.  Cursing is my Star Wars, Star Trek and Pokemon all wrapped into one.  If there was a dirty word convention, I’d be dressed up as an Assclown and waiting on line with the Dick-smokers, Asshats and Douchebags for days before the doors were scheduled to open, having feeble sword fights with giant colorful dildos and vehemently arguing the true derivation of the word fucktard.

Being the fanboy that I am, there are certain curse words that I never tire of and that always make me happy regardless of the context.  One of those words is “dingleberry.”  This is a near perfect vulgarity.  Despite its disgusting connotation, it’s a fun word to say, rolling off the tongue (as a real dingleberry might) and at first blush sounds more festive than foul.  For example, if someone offered you a piece of dingleberry pie, your initial reaction would be, “Well, it’s not Christmas time, but it sounds good as long as you have some eggnog to go with it.” 

Dingleberry is my Boba Fett.

Herein lies the problem: our tentative Ireland itinerary includes three days in Dublin, two days in Kilkenny and two days in…Dingle.  D-I-N-G-L-E.  A town.  In Ireland.  Named Dingle. 

Brain…getting…stuck.  Can’t…process.  Too…many…jokes.  System failure.  Powering off.

Three weeks later, in a desperate attempt to override the heavily damaged portions of my cerebral cortex and hopefully begin to re-enter society, I have decided to write a dingleberry story in hopes of purging my system.  Since this is a therapeutic exercise, it will be filled with noticeably manufactured and overreaching scatological references, poop puns, and berry word rhymes. And, of course, it is a children’s story.

Dingle Barry the Dingle Bear
Barry the Bear lived in a small tree in the forest outside a small town in Ireland called Dingle.  Mostly, Barry was a happy bear, spending his days frolicking with his little forest friends and eating the delicious little berries that only grew in the Dingle forest. 

Barry had many friends in the forest - Dingle Terry the turtle, Dingle Mary the mouse, and Dingle Harry the hamster.  There was also a wasp from Germany named Gerry, but Gerry was not always nice to Barry, so he did not call him a friend.  Even with his friends, Barry the Bear was only mostly happy because he was the only bear who lived in the forest. 

Sometimes Barry missed being around other bears like him, and he would think about leaving the Dingle forest to go live with other bears in other forests.  They would often invite him, saying, “Leave the dingle berries behind, Dingle Barry, and come have a fresh start with us.”

This was tempting to Dingle Barry the Dingle Bear.  Barry especially wanted to meet a pretty girl bear and often thought of how nice it would be to have a special “bearie” in his life.

But leaving the forest would mean to leave the Dingle berries behind.  Dingle Barry loved Dingle berries.  More importantly, whenever another animal had Dingle berries, they would break out in a bad rash.  So Dingle Barry always had all the Dingle berries he wanted.   

And in the end, Dingle Barry would always decide that he loved Dingle berries too much, and would rather be alone eating Dingle berries in the Dingle forest than to leave in search of a single bearie.

One day, Dingle Gerry, the wasp, flew up to Dingle Barry’s ear with a piece of paper in his hand.

“I have an idea for you,” Dingle Gerry buzzed.  “If I give you the instructions for how to grow Dingle berries, then you could move to another forest, meet other bears, and still have Dingle berries.”

Dingle Barry the Dingle Bear paused for a moment. 

“That’s a very good idea, but are you sure you have the right recipe for making my own Dingle berries?  What if they are too big, or too small, or too hard, or too dry, or too brown?  I, Dingle Barry, am a good bear, but what if I am not a good Dingle berry farmer?”

Dingle Gerry held up the piece of paper.

“It’s very easy, so easy that even a Dingle Barry like you can do it,” laughed Dingle Gerry. “It’s right here. But,” he smiled, “I have one condition.”

“What’s that?” Dingle Barry asked.

“Well,” smiled Dingle Gerry, “when you leave, I want to move into your tree.”
 
Dingle Barry thought about Dingle Gerry’s idea. 

“If I could learn how to grow my own Dingle berries,” Dingle Barry said, “then I could be happy anywhere.” 

“That’s right,” Dingle Jerry said, shaking the piece of paper in the air. “So, do we have a deal?”

Dingle Barry suddenly became very excited about making Dingle berries. 

“OK,” he yelled happily, “It’s a deal.”

Dingle Barry shook Dingle Gerry’s tiny wasp hand and Dingle Gerry gave him the recipe for Dingle berries. 

“Now go pack your bags,” Dingle Gerry said, “you leave for the new forest tomorrow.  And don’t forget to take all your old Dingle berries with you.” 

Dingle Barry the Dingle Bear went back to the small tree where he lived to begin packing.  But when he looked around, he saw that his walls were all covered with photos and paintings of Dingle berries.  His shelves were filled with jars of Dingle berry jam and Dingle berry jelly.  And on every table there was a heaping bowl of Dingle berries. 

It was then that Dingle Barry realized that Dingle berries were not just a part of his life, they were what made his life special.  And if he could grow them anywhere, then anyone could grow them anywhere, and then there would be nothing special about Dingle berries.   For some reason, this made Dingle Barry very sad.  Instead of packing his bags, Dingle Barry sat down in his chair and lit a Dingle berry-scented candle and quietly thought to himself.

The next morning, there was a loud knock at the door. 

The sound jarred Dingle Barry awake.  He was still sitting in his chair and there were lots of Dingle berries stuck to his fur.  He must have fallen asleep there the night before.

“Who is it?” Dingle Barry asked as he picked dried Dingle berries from his fur and flicked them across the room.

“It’s me, Dingle Gerry the wasp.  It’s time for you to go so I can move into the tree.”

Dingle Barry opened the door and saw Dingle Gerry standing there with his bags on the stoop.

“Hi Gerry.  Um, after thinking about it, I changed my mind. I want to stay in the Dingle forest.”

“What?  No way, Dingle Barry!” 

“I’m sorry.  I want Dingle berries to be special, and I want Dingle Barry to be special.  I want to stay.”

“We had a deal!  If you don’t leave, I’ll sue you, Dingle Barry, and take your tree!”

“But then I won’t have a place to live.”

“That’s not my problem.  That’s a Dingle Barry problem.”  

That’s when Dingle Barry remembered that he was the Dingle bear, and Dingle Jerry was a tiny little wasp the size of a Dingle berry.

“Pog Mo Thoin,” Dingle Barry said as he crushed Dingle Gerry against the door. 

Dingle Barry closed the door and smiled as he walked over to pull a jar of Dingle berry jam from the shelf, absently wiping Dingle Gerry’s smashed guts on his backside fur right next to a cluster of tiny, dried balls of shit.