My turd terrorism may have taken a life.
In the summer of '84, my little brother and I went off for a weekend of "camping" (translation: drinking beer and doing bong hits in an air-conditioned cabin while listening to Dio and Judas Priest). We'd started drinking as soon as we cleared our parents' driveway, so it wasn't long before the first piss call was in order.
Bear in mind that there were quite a few more traditional service stations clinging to life twenty years ago, but many of them had long abandoned any pretense of service -- especially in regard to their restrooms. Hey, something's gotta give when you cut the staff down to one semi-tard or octogenarian making change for customer-pumped gas and the odd soda pop or pack of smokes. The only thing that these vandalized, neglected cesspools had in common with the hygienic ass-meccas of yesteryear was that they occupied the same building.
Inevitably one of the restrooms was totally inoperable at our chosen place of rest, so Little Brother and I joined the line. Ahead of us: a family of five, including two line-jamming females. Behind us: The Dude. I guess The Dude decided that my brother and I were kindred rock n' roll rebels (he had on a .38 Special baseball-sleeve concert tee), because he proceeded to rub his ample gut and regale us with anecdotes regarding the urgency, size, color, and consistency of the crap he was about to take.
"Man, I'm gonna have to buy my jeans three sizes smaller after I get rid of this load!"
"Jeez, if I have to hold this thing another ten minutes I'm gonna be tasting it!"
"I had the green squirts last night, but this feels like I'm about to pass a goddam cinder block! Whoa!!!"
And so it went for about fifteen agonizing minutes. I'm all for a little in-line levity, but there was something about this dude that just wasn't right. He was a little too old and a little too fixated on his own bowels. My brother and I started wondering if maybe he was hoping to "fixate" on our bowels, if you know what I mean.
Then and there I decided to ruin his day.
I handed Little Bro my car keys and told him that as soon I went into the men's room, I wanted him to bring my LeMans around to the side of the building, and to keep the car running and ready for an immediate get-away. In I went.
First, I relieved my bowels. On the floor. (My dope-stoked appetite usually meant that there was one in the chamber at any waking moment.) As I wiped, I used the soiled wads of one-ply, newsprint-quality toilet paper to paint a hellish masterpiece. First the seat. Then the faucet knobs. The walls... the tank... the mirror... I felt like Van Gogh on sidewalk crank. Then I soaked any toilet paper still on the roll with a stream of urine. I jammed the entire contents of the paper towel dispenser into the bowl and cut the water off to the toilet -- in fact, I tightened it so hard that the knob snapped off in my hand. It was that burst of adrenaline-stoked super-strength that snapped me out of my frenzy. Now for the getaway.
"She's all yours, buddy! Have fun!" I told The Dude as I slid out the door and into the passenger side of my LeMans.
As I yelled at my little brother to haul ass, I looked back to see an outraged, red-faced Dude run out of the vandalized shithouse, pick up a beer bottle and feebly heave it at our fleeing Pontiac. We were three hundred yards away before the bottle hit the ground.
For nearly ten miles we laughed so hard that we didn't even want a beer. Every legendary road trip needs a good prank, and to have one so early into the weekend seemed like a good omen... good times... until my brother looked into the rear-view mirror, turned white, and whispered, "Oh, shit. Look who's behind us."
It was The Dude, riding our bumper, frothing at the mouth as he yelled inaudible obscenities, waving a pistol at us. These were the days before cell phones, remember, so all we could do was punch the accelerator and put as much distance between us and The Dude's Vega as possible. Not an easy task, given that the highway had narrowed to two lanes on our side and was full of Memorial Day traffic. No matter how we wove in and out of traffic, The Dude matched our every move. We managed to put a car or two between us and the Death Vega, but things were still dicey. If we could just reach open highway, I knew that our eight cylinders would guarantee safety; but I still feared that he'd open up before we were out of range.
I turned back to check on our pursuer's progress. His way was blocked by a station wagon, so he tried to pass it on the shoulder in an effort to catch up. Then I heard tires skid and saw a cloud of dust, peppered with airborne Vega body parts. Smoke rose into the air.
I don't know if The Dude lived or died. All I knew is that we weren't being chased by a self-soiled vigilante anymore.
By the way, we had a great time camping.
-- Peristalsis
