Revenge of the Turds

This is the story of how I pooped in my own eye.

Once, several years ago, I was sitting on the toilet at work. I had a job I didn’t enjoy very much – my job was to proofread Subway restaurants coupons and get told by the company CEO that anyone could do my job – and so I used to spend as much time as possible hiding in the bathroom, fantasizing about leaving graffiti on the wall or fiddling with my Brand! New! iPhone! which was pretty much useless because in 2008 no one knew about Twitter. Sometimes, because I couldn’t help it, I would quietly sing, “Five. Five dollar. Five dollar footlooooooong.” Then I’d scoff and say to my iPhone, “Yeah, I got your five dollar footlong right here.”

Hug your proofreader. She’s lonely and insane.

So I was sitting on the toilet one day when I squeezed out an epic turd. I mean, a real doozy of a dookie. A doozkie. Right out my butt. Plop. So satisfying.

I have this fascination with the things my body makes. Doesn’t matter what color or texture. If it has exited me, it must be examined. Sometimes smelled. The day they pulled my cyst-eaten right ovary from my body was one of my greatest triumphs. My hands in the wintertime are constantly cracking because I am so diligent about washing them after dangling tampons in front of my nose like I’m about to chum the toilet for sharks. Don’t look at me like that, I said I wash my hands. I’ll probably never have children. Let me have my meaty tampons.

Mesmerizing.


NO, PLUCKY. DON’T LOOK. DON’T LOOK AT THE TOILET PAPER
GO DOWN THE HOLE.

So I was admiring my doozkie and after a moment or two, I – still sitting – reached back and flushed the can. And looked down, one last time, fondly, between my legs.

The toilet splashed refreshing cold poo water directly into my corneas.

There were questions. Questions like “Why me?” and “What do I do about this?” and “How will I explain to my coworkers that I got pinkeye from a toilet with the accuracy of a dolphin?” I ran to the sink and – assiduously sterilizing my hands – pried open my eyes. I don’t know what I was looking for. Shit flakes? (The worst cereal.) There was nothing in my eyes that I could see. But I knew. I knew the poo was there. Lurking.

I began to rinse my eyeballs. In hindsight, I think I just got backsplash in my right eye, but whatever, at that moment I would have thrust my face into Zach Galifianakis’ sweet Cackalacky armpits if I’d thought for even a second that it would spare me the indignity of being the office’s Poopeye. Oh my god, I thought, plunging my face into the sink, they’re going to call me Poopeye. Or Stinkeye. I don’t want to be Stinkeye. I just want to move to Montana.

I realized I was going to have to make a phone call. But to whom? Who the fuck do you call when you’ve shat your own face? I tried to be rational about this. My general practitioner was more likely to have experience with feces, but my ophthalmologist would be the expert on foreign substances in eyeballs. I don’t have a proctologist – who, in any case, would know tons about butt butter but little to nothing about eyemergencies. I tried not to bite my nails, or really touch anything at all.

I decided to call my ophthalmologist. I lamented that I would probably have to burn my phone later.

It was years ago, like I said, but after I went through the 50-level phone tree, I think the conversation with the woman who answered the phone probably went like this:

Woman: This is Raleigh Eye People, where every eye is an eye five! How can I help you?
Me: Hi. Um. I’m—Charlotte and I’m a patient of record, but this isn’t about an exam or anything.
Woman: Okay…
Me: I just have a question. Um. Well, more like a situation.
Woman: Uh huh.
Me: I need help. It’s kind of TMI and maybe you’re not even the people to call but I wasn’t really sure what else to do.
Woman [now invested in this like a murder mystery she thinks she may be the star of]: I’ll do my best.
Me: So I—well, I was going to the bathroom and I, you know, I had to go, and, you know, I didn’t touch anything, but when I flushed I was kiiiind of looking and… it, you know, it splashed. Into my eye.
Woman: [makes a strange sound]
Me: And I just… should I be worried? About the poo that now lives forever in my eye?
Woman [mustering her courage]: Was it—I mean, did you get a lot in your eye?
Me: No no, it was like. It was like one really good drop. But I mean, it went right up in there. No mistake. There is poo water in my eye.
Woman: I think if you wash it really well and keep an eye on it (REALLY, lady?), you’ll be fine. If you show any odd symptoms after a day or two, give us a call back.
Me: So you don’t think I’ll get pinkeye or my eye will liquefy and fall out or that I’ll be a pariah in a Shirley Jackson story about the evils of senseless violence?
Woman: What?
Me: I said I’ll just get some cream or something, thanks!

The moral of the story: …I honestly don’t know what the moral is. I didn’t learn anything from this experience. I haven’t changed any of my habits, except that maybe I’ll wear goggles after eating a lot of fiber, and that I’ll stand up to watch my water logs sail down the porcelain flume.* Geronimo!

*I don’t mean that I stand up to shit. I just stand up to watch as I FLUSH my shit.**

**This sentence was less ludicrous in my head.

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Comments

  1. So glad I am not the only one! Err that looks, I refuse to comment on poo water, on the off chance it would be embarrassing! (But I do live with two “men”)

    If you don’t have steroid cream from your doc, cortisone cream works pretty good. (I am a hand washer too, hence the eczema.)

    • Charlotte A. Cavatica says:

      Considering this happened well over five years ago, I think I’m okay. Thanks for the recommendation, though. ;)

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