My fateful day arrived on a fishing trip with my father and his friends, all of whom are retired. Here I am with eight old men, me the boy at twenty-eight-years old. Now, mind you, I like to dole out the sarcasm and criticism like a pro, so I refer to this group as the CRS Fishing Team -- Can't Remember Shit. With all of my wit and comments the old fellers want to get one up on me, so, as you can imagine, if I were to slip up I would never hear the end of it.
If anyone has spent any time with the elderly, they know the eating habits of said individuals are consistent with chugging a bottle of stool softener and laxatives. The breakfast consisted of coffee (black), bacon (low fat), wheat toast, wheat pancakes, I Can't Believe It's Not Butter, and other assorted bowel-evacuating foods items. So after this wonderful geriatric breakfast, my dad and I head to the boat. It is just before dawn and we are buzzing across the lake to get to the prime fishing spot when the pains hit -- no, not shit pains. They seem to be gas pains.
My father is driving; I am upwind of him in the front of the boat. So I decide to let a little gas flow his direction. Ah, yes, the desired effect is achieved. "DAMN boy, did you just shit your pants?" I just laughed it off and told him his day just got longer because I was going to assault his olfactory system all day with these fine air biscuits.
Well, a couple of hours go by, and I have been letting them fly and I think both the fish and my father are having a hard time finding oxygen. And then it happens -- I feel THE pains! "OK," I think to myself. "I can just off gas for a little while and let them out slowly, and all will be okay." I lean over to let one seep out and to my surprise out comes the worst smelling hot, sticky anal goo that I have ever felt.
"What do I do now?" I think, sitting there in my fishing seat. So I tuck my tail and say, "Hey, Dad, you got any toilet paper stashed back there?"
That's when the laughter erupts from the back of the boat. "Damn boy! I knew you were going to shit yourself." In between the laughs he says, "No toilet paper back here! But Gary has some in his boat -- why don't you call him on the radio."
No way. Not me. I am proud and I am already not going to live this one down! I stripped off my drawers and shorts and jumped in the lake. What else can a man do? I let my boxer briefs float away to be fish food, cleaned up with water, and put my shorts back on.
Oh how I wish this was the end of it all. I climbed back in the boat and my dad said, "Well, you killed the fishing here!"
"Good," I said. "Let's go back to the cabin so I can shit and change."
"Oh, no!" Dad says. "We aren't going back to the cabin until lunch!" It is eight in the morning now. The pain and rumbling was growing in my bowels and it was just a matter of time before I messed the USS Minnow and really put a stink out there for the old man! After I explained the options to him, he agreed to head back the three miles we were away from the cabin. I don't know how many people have taken a nice, bumpy boat ride when their bowels have decided to sink the ship, but it was pure hell.
On a normal day, it's a long uphill walk from the dock to the cabin; this time it came with a dilemma: to run or not to run? Can ol' iron ass make the climb?
Too bad this story does not have a better ending -- I did make it to the shit house to purge the most pungent geriatric food I have ever partaken in.
In closing, let me give you folks a little advice for eating a geriatric diet. Start slow and give your bowels time to adjust long before exposure to such a drastic diet change. You will live a happier -- and cleaner -- life that way.