dungin'

The final salvo in the barrage of birthdays happens today, September 14: it's my brother David's birthday, and he's turning a ripe old thirty-five.

David's a nut. At least twice a week, he sends me a text message from his office. Without fail, it reads:

Dungin'.

This is how David reminds me of his existence: he signals when he's taking a dump.

My brother's dumps are the stuff of legend, and it's always mystified me how someone so thin can produce such enormous turds. Without my daily dose of Metamucil, my own turds amount to little more than rabbit raisins, but David-- ah, David unloads a damn freight train when his ass goes postal. I'd love to know his secret, but I fear I already do: he doesn't go every day. Yours truly can be found on the throne at least once per day, firing off rounds with Metamucil-fueled consistency. David, by contrast, must have an aircraft-hangar-sized colon or something, because he can store a terrifying amount of the brown stuff before he finally heeds the urge to let fly.

And he lets fly while at work. Where he can earn a reputation. I'd never take a dump while at YB-- ever-- unless I absolutely had to. I imagine that David prefers the office john because it's one of those industrial-strength toilets; his meek little house toilets, one upstairs and one downstairs, probably shudder at his approach.

When David texts me his gastric status update, I usually respond with an unpunctuated

Awlsome

He truly is an awlsome brother, and not just because he kicks my ass in the fecal output department. He is, as the Jews might say, a Mensch.

Happy Birthday, Big Boy.

(Here's a link to the poem I wrote David when he turned 32.)


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