I love my poopy blog!

Perhaps I’ve embraced my defecation and elimination side more than I’d care to admit. Lately, my approach to the elder’s poop talk is to join in, though I think my knowledge of the intricacies of Farrelly Brothers-style humor and the like might be disturbing even to the 4-year-old.

He might fear he’ll never live up to his mom’s absurdist fecal sensibilities, and therefore will forever overcompensate on the poop talk:

Boy: “I love my poopy pants, I love my poopy hands.”
Woman: “I love my poopy nose! I love my poopy dog! I love my poopy mouth, I love my poopy food! I love my poopy doll! I love my poopy poop!

Ick.

Let’s just hope this won’t lead to “I love my poopy films, I love my German sheisse porn.” And then we’re fine.

But another favorite trick of mine lately has been to strategically add poop into famous songs. While visiting my mother’s house over the holidays, this worked best with the Beatles’ “One” album — including all the big hits. It was a scatological goldmine.

“She loves poop, yeah, yeah, yeah.”
“Love, love me poop!”
“I wanna hold your poo-oo-oo-oo-oo-oop!
And, of course, “All you need is poop!”

The bills will mount later as my boy’s future therapist comments on his clean language, but wades through his obvious deep-seated confusion about dear old Mom, who frequently blurred the lines between “poop” and “love.”

But for now, I get only little bursts of poop talk and the chance to instill an appreciation of decent pop music — and indirectly, “Weird” Al Yankovic.

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