Orange poo and why no one can ever know it is you

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Erin Nanasi is an avid underwater basket weaver, with a penchant for satire and the odd wombat reference.
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secret1 Orange poo and why no one can ever know it is you

My husband and I went to the eye doctor yesterday. My appointment was 45 minutes before my husband’s, but he popped in to the exam room to say howdy.

My pupils were the size of dinner plates, my eyelids felt like they had weights attached to them, and I oozed yellow I don’t know what out of my tear ducts. Oh, and I was pretty much blind. My husband got the same treatment, but while I went home, he went back to work.

For the past three weeks, my husband has been dumping the remains of his coffee into a tree that is potted and growing inside the office. He told me about this last night, and said the tree is “flourishing.” Well, yes, that would be the sugar. Florists have told me for years that if you want flowers to last, put them in 7-UP. No florist has ever told me, however, about coffee. And now I know why.

Three weeks worth of coffee. Rancid coffee, sitting at the bottom of a planter. According to my husband, about a week ago, people began noticing an odd smell coming from the area around the tree, but since no one knew what he was doing, they couldn’t figure out the source of the smell. Now, picture this: 6’2” man, wearing flexible sun blockers from the eye doctor shoved under his regular glasses AND regular sunglasses, staggering around his office. What could possibly go wrong?

He walked right into that tree, that’s what. And as the pot shifted, the rancid coffee smell became more, well, obvious. My husband, always a quick thinker, ran (stumbled) into the break room and grabbed a large handful of napkins that were put out with about seven different cakes. See, my husband’s boss is transferring to another facility, and to wish him well, people brought in cakes. Ignoring the cakes, my husband lurched gingerly back to the tree and tried to mop up all the coffee.

He realized that wasn’t working. Oh, he was able to clean up quite a bit of the coffee, but the smell wasn’t going anywhere. In fact, it was so bad that the admin working in the office next to the tree got up and left, eyes tearing up. The coffee needed to be neutralized, and my husband grabbed a bottle of orange industrial spray cleaner. The result was, he told, orange poo. The admin returned with a can of evergreen air freshening spray. Orange pine poo.

Hubby retreats back into his darkened office; his lights were off and blinds closed because any bit of light felt like someone shoving a sharpened chopstick into your brain. Since his office was dark, people were unaware he was there, and as they passed by, mentioned the orange pine poo smell. “What the hell IS that?” My husband put his head down on his desk.

As of this morning, no one has any idea that my husband is responsible for the fact that part of the outer office smells like orange pine poo. They are blissfully unaware that he poured coffee onto a tree for three weeks, then crashed into that tree while recovering from a painful and disconcerting visit to the eye doctor. And since most people in this town visit sites like Fox news and Red State, I have no fear of them finding out through this article.

The moral of the story is this: don’t pour coffee into a tree for three weeks, then spill the rancid residue and try and cover it up with orange industrial cleaner. If, for some really strange reason, you decide to try this even after reading this tale of woe and orange pine poo, at least do it like my husband did. No one can ever know it’s you.

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 Orange poo and why no one can ever know it is you
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Posted by on February 23, 2012. Filed under COMMENTARY/OPINION. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback to this entry
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2 Responses to Orange poo and why no one can ever know it is you

  1. greenlight Reply

    February 23, 2012 at 9:59 am

    Fun read! (And lesson learned.) :)

  2. Gary Reply

    June 19, 2012 at 5:05 pm

    Yeah, nobody in this small redneck town would ever read anything like this. We are all too busy shootin’ guns, eatin’ squirrel and tryin’ to get our GEDs to read this.

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