Sorry, my telepathy is down

Alvin N. Chipmunkk's cousins, Chip and Dale, are our activities director and her assistant. They really are nice ladies, but recently they were the perpetrators of the kind of miscommunication that is rife around this place.

Part of my job involves going to the various bulletin boards in this vast facility during my shift and posting activities notices. There is also a podium in the dining room where they make announcements. All Chip ever told me is that I was to put the notices at the podium, where there is a notebook with dividers in it labeled Monday through Saturday. I was doing so, but was getting complaints that the announcements weren't making it to the podium. Well, it ain't my fault what happens to them once they're there, I figured. So if someone's been making off with them or accidentally throwing them out, that's Somebody Else's Problem!

What Chip had neglected to tell me was that I was to put a notice both on the day before and the day of the activity and that they only made announcements at lunch and dinner, so if you post a morning activity on the day of the activity, the activity will have already happened by the time it is announced.

Welll.....

It would have been nice if I had known this from the get-go!

Seriously, Chip does a great job. But this situation somewhat made me want to throttle her. My telepathy has been broken for some time now, you know!

I Must Have Been Truly Evil In Another Life...

To deserve to be smelling someone else's dumps every morning.

Ok, I am better off than I was when I was working in the health care center, because at least in this case the person can wipe their own toot-toot.

But still...

Whenever I go at 1:30-ish in the morning to assist this lady to the toilet, make sure she gets there without falling and breaking one of her fragile hips and helping her pull down her Depends, I know what I'm in for. Because 1:30-ish is the magic hour for her bowels to empty.

I know she's embarrassed about it, but what can ya do?

I go stand outside the door. Still, poop stink is stealthy. It migrates into the other room. And I say "God DAMN!" I stand there hiding the fact that I'm retching and gagging. Poor woman. It isn't her fault. I hope I die before I get old and decrepit enough to require someone to help my worn-out ass to the bathroom because one's bowels do not get better with age. I guar-on-tee that the poor fool who would have to assist me in this fashion would be lying on the floor vomiting like the victim of a poison gas attack, because that will be what they'd have been hit with, given the ancient bowels that don't digest properly and my proclivity for eating onions and garlic and other spicy foods that make your poop reek to high heaven.

Before I die I really, really, really want to be in a profession that doesn't involve butts and bowels and all the other smelly private functions. So everybody has to buy my book when it comes out. It will earn you good karma, I guar-on-tee!

Read The Poop Report for funny, disgusting poop tales!