A best friend from the Army and I are fortunate enough to live near each other now. Fortunate for us, anyway, but I'm not so sure about the rest of humanity. We regularly enjoy taking trips to Europe to dig up old WWII battlefield artifacts. On more than one occasion, we've completed Poopin Across Europe tours. But not every trip started like the smudgy tail I'm about to relate.
On this particular trip, we had spent the entire time in the tail of the aircraft. You see, we spotted a GI by his boots (he had civis on otherwise) and knew he must be headed back to the sandbox. Accosting him after take-off, we ended up drinking red wine for the entire flight. The flight attendants told us to help ourselves (NWA has free booze for international flights), but to stay out of their way. Needless to say, when I looked at my watch and realized we were landing in forty-five minutes, I was aghast, and quietly shined up.
We got through customs in Amsterdam (no -- we did not visit the red light district), got our rental minibus (a VW), and headed out.
Now, this particular friend and I have always pooped a lot. And I mean A LOT. We've left brown bears in the summer and snow snakes in the winter. In fact, we both feel pooping in the woods is ideal and somehow, um, inspiring -- more so than the normal stool worship.
So we had now been driving (yes, drunk) for about an hour or two. The two-mega gulp coffees I had swilled now festered in my loins like Mt. Pinatubo. I needed a porcelain victim, and I needed one NOW. But I also knew my buddy was getting all squidgy down there as well, and there would quite likely be a race, if not wrestling match. Since I was the designated driver (he's too "a-scared" to drive in Europe), he was able to make a break for the McDonalds door a bit before I. Sensing defeat before the race was even over, I entered the inner sanctum to find only one stall and those familiar boots below the partition.
Turning in disgust, knowing that I would have to sit in his stench, I walked out. Pacing and squeezing my now-pursing lips (not the lips on my face, mind you), a diabolical plan for revenge suddenly came into my warped mind. I knew that Western Europe has these strange low volume flush toilets that flush from the front with a violent upsurge water jet, often bouncing off the front side and pushing the fecal matter down the dark hole of no retreat; and I knew I could use this violent flush to my advantage.
Opening the door, I yelled in to him. "Holy shit! How about a courtesy flush, for crying out loud!"
The trap was set. The hapless victim was positioned perfectly. Seeing his foot move while his body turned to the flush valve, I giggled with excitement. Kerflush, kaboom, kerplunk! The trap was sprung!
Oh, Glory was mine. I could see his feet dance and hear what sounded like flailing arms all akimbo against the metal partition wall. I closed the door and went into the hallway, laughing uproariously.
A few moments later, he emerged. Trying not to give away his negative experience, he walked on by without saying a word. I, now ready to really explode, quickly went in and felt the extreme relief that only too much coffee and six gallons of red wine can produce.
Not long after I had completely evacuated myself, the door opened and a familiar voice bellowed, "How about a courtesy flush!" Not to fall for this myself, I carefully lifted my butt off the seat, silently so as to not let him know, and flushed.
One moment passed, and then another. Finally, when my buddy could stand it no longer. "Well?" he demanded
I said, "What?" He grumbled and walked away.
We were on the road, a few miles later, when my giggling finally got the better of me. I turned and asked him how his poop was. Disgusted, he looked and me and called me a bastard. "What?" I responded incredulously. What had I done?
"You son-of-a-bitch. You knew I'd get a satchel wash, didn't you!" Almost driving off the road laughing, I admitted I did and that I had lifted myself, Big Jim, and the twins safely out of harm's way. What a way to start a trip!
