Cut the Crap

 

You can’t believe everything you read, not even when Oprah recommends it. “A Million Little Pieces” by James Frey was published in 2003. It was sold as the memoir of a 23-year old who is addicted to drugs and alcohol, recounting his struggles in life and rehab. I have always loved memoirs as a window into lives and experiences that are different from my own. It’s kind of like learning life lessons without having to flail through the actual circumstances. Does that count as cheating?

I felt so much admiration for the author and the challenges he worked through as a recovering addict. I shared an account from the book with Albert one night. Albert is a dentist. Some of his name plates say “Albert Fudds”

Anyhoo, Frey wrote about a dental visit where he refused anesthesia prior to receiving two root canals in order to protect his sobriety. Frey’s description of the pain he endured makes me cringe even as I remember reading the story 15 years later. Albert’s reaction? He scoffed.

OK, learning how to communicate successfully in a marriage is a JAY-OH-BEE, I tell you what! And Albert’s listening skills have improved significantly. But HOW ANNOYING! Albert didn’t even know my my new book-friend! How dare he mistrust this poor fellow after he has been through so much!

Me: “How can you say that? How do you know that’s not true?”
He: “Why would any dentist do that?”
Me: “Because he doesn’t want narcotics. He wants to stay sober.”
He: “There’s no narcotic in the anesthetic. It doesn’t make any sense.”

Not a week after I finished reading this memoir, Frey was outed by “The Smoking Gun” for literary forgery and the book was reclassified as a semi-fictional novel. Now I was REALLY MAD. First Albert was so critical of my book causing me to question my gullibility AND NOW I FIND OUT HE WAS RIGHT??!!

Anthropologist Wade Davis’s book “Shadows in the Sun” tells a “well known account” of an old Inuit man who refused to leave his nomadic lifestyle and move into a Canadian settlement. Settlements are like the Native American reservations that we have in the US, basically a crappy deal for the folks who were there first.

His family was willing to move into the settlement, but the old man refused. In order to sway his decision, his family took away all of his tools. In the midst of a winter storm, the old man stepped out of the family igloo, dropped a dookie, and honed that steamer into a frozen blade which he sharpened with a spray of spit.

With that poop knife, the old man killed a dog and butchered it for meat. He used the dog’s ribcage to make a sled and used the dog’s hide to make a harness for another dog. Now this dude was set with grub, a new ride, and a frozen stink pickle. Buh-bye, settlement!

How many researchers would it take to find out if this story is true?

Number: Two.

Last year, a couple of scientists from Kent State cooked up a butt burrito to find out. One of them adopted an eight-day “arctic diet” which was high in protein and fatty acids. According to the study, he ate lots of beef, turkey, and salmon, with helpings of applesauce, mac and cheese, and butternut squash risotto like a legit Inuit from Italy.

The underwater sculptures were frozen to minus 58 degrees Fahrenheit, sharpened into brown blades with metal files, then tested on refrigerated pig hide. Would they make the cut? The scientist reported, “Like a crayon, it just left brown streaks on the meat.” Skid marks only. No slices.

That Inuit totally pranked the anthropologist, but I don't blame him. It’s so much fun to see how gullible people can be when they are so eager to learn about your culture. Here is a picture of the poop knife and the pork.

While researching this story, I learned that there is another, real type of poop knife that is used in modern-day America! A couple of years ago, a fellow wrote about his family of origin and the monstrous turds that would lay across the bowl and swirl round and round upon flushing. This happened often enough that the family kept a “poop knife” in the laundry room to chop the Kraken into more flushable pieces.

When the fellow was in his early twenties, he busted a giant grumpy at a buddy’s house and popped the door open to ask his friend to use his poop knife. Of course his friend didn’t know what a poop knife was. Nor did his wife when the fellow conveyed this story to her. She had been using that rusty knife in the utility closet to open Amazon boxes. You really must read the whole account here.

It’s surprisingly challenging to discern real from not-real these days, but I’m confident that we can flush out the truth together. Thank you for reading, my friends!