Growing up in the early 1970's in a very rural area, it was common for everyone to have outhouses. All my neighbors up and down our little dirt road had running water, but no indoor toilets. No one knew much about installing a commode and plumbing, much less putting in a septic system. If you grew up on a farm you were the original do-it-yourselfer. We didn't call a plumber -- we did it ourselves. The only specialist we ever sent for was the vet for the animals. (One day I will write about our cow shitting all over the artificial insemination man!)
My Aunt Roxie had bitched enough about the sub-zero midnight outhouse trips in the winter and the blazing hot, can't-breathe-for-the-shit-smell craps and run-out-quick-before-the-wasps-sting-your-ass-or-the-spiders-bite-your-balls summer trips. My Uncle Dale promised her that if she would shut up, he would install a nice indoor bathroom come spring. All us kids were super excited -- not necessarily because of the toilet, but because of all the digging, beer drinking, and cussing the men would do while they worked.
The big day came. It was a Saturday and about fifteen kids were gathered to watch the fun. Everything went great until the issue of a septic tank came up. Now, you have to understand: in rural America in the 70's, most people thought, "Septic tank! What septic tank? I'm not gonna waste money installing a big tank to hold shit when I can run a pipe directly to the nearby creek!" The law didn't enforce illegal turd dumping much back then, so everyone who lived near a creek did it.
The men dug a ditch down to the steep creek bank, put the pipe in, and hooked it all up. Now all that was needed was the first flush. All us kids ran down into the dry creekbed to see the water shoot out of the pipe. My Uncle Dale stuck his head out the bathroom window and yelled, "Ready?" We yelled back, "Yeah!!" and he flushed.
Now, the pipe was about ten feet off the ground above our heads and stuck out of the dirt eight feet. At that angle, the flush gained a lot of speed. It only took a second for us to realize we were in danger of being hit by a turd going at the speed of light, so we backed up real fast, falling all over each other. My cousin Corky didn't move fast enough. The water exploded from the pipe with a force comparable to an egg being shot out of a hen's ass after an elephant had stepped on her. There he was, dripping wet, eyes wide, afraid to look down at himself for fear of what he would find. The water had knocked him off his feet, so he was covered with mud, too. We weren't sure at the time if it was mud or shit, and we damn sure weren't getting close enough to find out! After a few stunned seconds, someone yelled, "SHIT MONSTER!!" and we all ran away from him, laughing so hard we could barely move.
The grown-ups had heard us and ran over to the edge of the creek bank to see what happened. My Aunt Roxie almost blew an O-ring when she saw her son, and Corky's dad fell down on the ground and lay there laughing like hell. You just think of the damage that could have been done to Corky's young mind, being covered in what he thought was shit and the whole neighborhood watching and laughing. After his Dad regained his composure, he said it was a test flush, containing water only -- and no shit at all. Relief flooded Corky's poor little mud-covered face, and he began to cry.
For about two months after that, whenever we were at their house and someone would go to the bathroom, we would run down into the creek (standing back, of course) to watch everything shoot out of the pipe. We would dare each other to see how close we could get to the stream of nasty shit water without getting hit. None of us ever really took the dare, because even at a young age we knew how dangerous it was to play Russian roulette with flying turds! Especially if it was Aunt Roxie doing the dirty deed. I swear that woman could produce the biggest monster turds in the world. When one of those bad boys squeezed its way thru that four-inch pipe, it looked like a baby's head cresting! There was a huge rock directly across from the pipe on the opposite side of the creek that the turds would splat against. If we were lucky, it would land just right and make a perfect circle of shit.
Looking back, we sure were a bored bunch of farm kids to get such enjoyment out of shit hitting rocks. Now you see why I am so addicted to PoopReport.
All us kids are grown up now. Every time we get together, they want me to tell the story of Aunt Roxie and the flying monster turds. You should see the faces of new husbands or wives when they hear our childhood stories. They have to be thinking, "What did I get myself into?" I run into my cousin Corky sometimes and, with no words spoken, we bust out laughing. It doesn't help the situation much it I see him first and yell, "SHIT MONSTER!" I'm too much of a lady (yeah, right!) to tell his new wife what we are laughing at.
I grew up to be a carpenter and plumber. Every time I unplug someone's toilet, I am reminded of the Shit Monster and his mom's flying monster turds. I can't help but snicker to myself. The people always ask what I'm laughing at, and the stories get told again. I guess I owe my profession to the shit of my youth.
