I got my unemployed ass out of bed at about 7:30, which, to say the least, was a chore. Since I've been unemployed, I've been waking up at about noon. So getting up at 7:30 was a bit difficult. I had an interview scheduled early in the morning; this time, for a first, I was a bit excited. All the other interviews I'd been going on were a big waste of my time. Everybody wants to pay you nothing and expects you to have twenty years experience. But this particular morning I had an interview with a fairly large home theater company. The owner of the company sounded like a decent guy, so I was feeling good about the whole thing. The interview was at 9:30 AM, so I'd leave my house at about 8:15 just to be on the safe side. The company was located in Marlboro, New Jersey -- roughly forty-five minutes from where I live.

Waking to the sound of some cheesy morning DJ, something immediately felt askew. The evening before I had imbibed quite a bit of Budweiser, so my head and guts weren't feeling all that well. I knew I should take that morning Bud dump before I left the house, but there would be no time -- because I'd gone out drinking the night before, I hadn't taken the time to iron my clothes for the interview. That would be the first thing to do.

Jumping out of bed, I noticed that everything in my bedroom was a bit crooked. I thought for a second that maybe there had been an earthquake and my house was suddenly sitting in a massive crater the size of the Grand Canyon. I looked out my window to see that all was well -- it was my head that was crooked. I shook the sleep and hangover from my eyes and quickly jumped in the shower to wash off the stink from the night before.

I stood there bleary-eyed and shaking a bit, watching the smoke of nine hundred cigarettes slowly drain off my weary body. Hopefully I wouldn't break into a sweat during the interview. But anyone who drinks Budweiser knows that you sweat that swill out the next day no matter how much you try not to. I kept this in mind as I liberally swathed deodorant under my arms and loaded up on the cologne. My stomach was churning my entire time in the shower, but I had no time to drop the Bud Bomb. I still needed to iron my clothes and print directions before I ran out the door.

I finished my clothes at about 8:05 and threw them on as quickly as possible. A note to all you readers: never put on pants with a metal button right after you iron them. I looked down to the Old Navy logo branded on the left side of nutsack, chuckled in pain, and quickly started to button my shirt. My stomach was killing me by now, churning and bubbling. The ghastly sounds within could only be compared to the mighty gallop of the Budweiser Clydesdales themselves. The horses inside my intestines weren't happy that they were being corralled and began to kick at the gates. But there was NO TIME!

At 8:30, I climbed into my trusty Toyota and started on my journey. I was behind schedule. I thought the best route would be to head towards the Garden State Parkway. The directions from Mapquest suggested the back roads. I thought that way would take me much longer, so I opted for the Parkway.

Just as I went through the underpass, I saw the Parkway traffic backed up for miles. I knew my fate was sealed. But I was too far out of the way to switch to the back roads, so I had little choice in the matter. I hoped that maybe the traffic was only backed up at that spot and that it would clear right after the toll plaza.

Luck was not on my side. I proceeded to sit on the on-ramp for the next forty-five minutes. For the next forty-five minutes, my Toyota didn't move an INCH. Apparently someone decided to play bumper cars with the guardrail, and apparently every single person on the Parkway thought they must slow down and LOOK at the guy sitting on the side of the road. He wasn't even on the road!

As I sat there, cursing every single thing that came into my head, my stomach again began to boil and gurgle. I knew there was some bad shit to come, but there was nothing I could do. I tried going to my happy place to calm the demons within, but there was no quelling these devil's minions. They were not happy with my choice of libation and I needed to make a reckoning.

The traffic finally cleared and I proceeded to actually drive at my normal rate of eighty MPH. I had roughly fifteen minutes to go over thirty miles. Unless I was in the Concorde, I knew I was going to be late. Since I was in such a rush to get out the door, I forgot to grab the phone number of the place so I could call and tell them I was going to be late. Infernal Budweiser!

I finally rolled into the interview about 9:45, only fifteen minutes late. Apparently they had heard about the Parkway traffic, so they knew I would be tardy. For now, at least, crisis was averted. But my stomach was cramping really bad and I was nearly at the point of shitting my pants. This log of black death in my guts needed to be evacuated sometime soon or I would die of toxic shock syndrome. The demons within churned and bubbled. I gingerly crossed my legs to try to ease the pain, but all it did was make me look extremely gay.

Finally the owner of the company was ready for me. We walked up the stairs to his office, chatting about new home theater technologies and how his company has grown over the last few years. Each step was like a knife in stomach. By the time we reached his office, I was nearly in tears.

"You OK? Your eyes look a bit red."

"Uh, yes, I'm fine. I have bad allergies."

The interview went well -- up until the point when we began to discuss money. I'm very experienced in the field of home automation and low voltage electronics, with about nine years in the field. That being said, my normal pay rate would be somewhere in the area of $25-$30 an hour. Not huge money, but such would be my pay at this point in my career. This cheap fuckstain had the audacity to offer me fifteen dollars an hour.

Once my intestines heard this extremely low offer, they decided to make their position known. A totally inaudible fart was pushed forth by my angry innards. Inaudible -- but it would not go unnoticed. The smell wafting forth from my ass could only be compared to rotting garbage on a warm summer day. Since I was at ground zero, I smelled it immediately; and lowly smile crept to my face. The owner of the company was about four or five seconds away from smelling it, and I knew that he knew what we both would know.

He was in mid-sentence when he smelled the unmistakable scent of perfumed death.

"Well, $15 an hour is what I pay my mid-level techni... what the hell is that smell? Did a garbage truck just pass?"

He looked out his window and I tried my hardest not to laugh and shit my pants. Knowing that things were about to go from bad to worse, I tried to end the interview as quickly as possible. I knew the money he was offering wasn't worth any more of my time, so I figured I would cut my losses by leaving now before I crapped in his office. I said my peace about his offer and tried to get the hell out of there.

Then the bargaining began. He then tried to offer me more money to take the position. At this point I was in so much pain I didn't care if he offered me $200,000 an hour to sit at a desk and read comic books. I was beginning to cramp so bad I had to lean over with my elbows on my knees.

"You look a little red... are you sure you're OK? Maybe a drink of water?"

"No... I'm just a little shocked at your low offer."

He hemmed and hawed about how he goes about paying his employees and the benefits package. But I didn't give a flying jellybean fart about what he was talking about. I NEEDED TO SHIT!

"Look. You obviously can't afford to pay me what I need to make. Let's cut through the bullshit and end this interview. You're wasting my time, and I'm wasting yours. Good day, sir."

And he just looked at me in speechless awe.

I knew time was of the essence. If I didn't get out of there soon, there would be more then a lowball offer sitting on the floor of his office.

I jumped to my feet, left his office, and RAN down the stairs. I could hear him still rattling on about my resume and the 401k. He obviously didn't realize the urgency in my gait. Anyone with half a brain could see that I was doing the need-to-shit walk. I calculated in my head that I was looking at forty-five minutes to make it home. The ass-rupture timer was at T-minus twenty minutes.

Now, being the Shameful Shitter that I am, I knew we (myself and my ass) were in a dire shituatiuon. There was no way I was making it home alive in twenty minutes. Even making it home in forty-five minutes would be a crapshoot! (Pun intended.) But there was no other way. I can't just pull over at some gas station and drop a deuce. I just can't!

I climbed back in the Toyota, lined the seat with copies of my resume, prayed to God Almighty, and sped off into the crap/time continuum. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I cursed myself for being so damn cheap and not getting the leather seats.

The game had begun. Every car doing less than 100 MPH was officially an asshole. I wielded the Toyota like a machete, carving through traffic. I felt like Michael Knight with KITT under my control. I was at the halfway point in the journey; and I was still about twenty-five minutes out. The ass-rupture timer was at roughly ten minutes. There just wasn't enough time!

I cruised down the Parkway at roughly a hundred miles an hour, praying that no cops were in the immediate area. I'm sure someone called in my license plate as a suspected drunk driver. But I was fairly certain that if an officer pulled me over, he would more then understand doing a hundred because you had to crap.

I was about five miles from my house and the ass rupture timer was beyond zero. We were resting on borrowed time. The pain was unbearable -- I was literally shaking like a heroin addict with the DTs. I pulled into my driveway like a lunatic and nearly plowed through my garage door. I limboed through the slowly-opening garage and sprinted into the house. There was NO time to stop and scratch my loving dog. I was beyond the point of no return. I hurdled her and hammered up the stairs to my bathroom. My legs were beginning to cramp and I was nearly in tears. The thought crossed my mind to grab some type of reading material for this long-awaited dump, but I chose the wiser and decided just to get straight in the bathroom.

The bathroom door was slightly ajar and this probably saved me 1/10,000 of a second -- and when you're about to shit your pants, any time you can save is worth its weight in gold. I ripped my pants down off my quivering body and blasted forth the nastiest, most foul Bud Bomb I have ever dropped in my entire life. The shit blasted all over the back of the toilet and my shirt that I had failed to raise up. But I didn't care. I had made it home without shitting in my new truck.

I sat there for a second to catch my breath. I took a deep breath and nearly vomited from the odiferous stench. Anyone out there who drinks a lot of beer knows the stench I'm talking about. There's no comparison to a beer dump, let alone a Bud dump. I'm not sure what they put in Budweiser that makes your shit smell worse then any other beer shit (with the exception of Guinness), but that stench is just horrendous.

After nearly thirty minutes, I stood up to admire my destruction. What I saw below, to say the least, shocked the shit out of me. The once-blue water in my toilet was now blacker then the soul of Satan himself. There was no white porcelain to be seen. The entire inside of the bowl was coated with the black ash that had spewed forth from my burning rectum. Mount Ass-uvious had erupted and taken its toll on my lowly Ferguson. There was splatter all over the back of the toilet and some over spray on the floor. The destruction was massive.

I wiped my burning ass about five thousand times and then proceeded to clean the rest of the bathroom. No one should have to clean up someone else's shit -- that's a rule I live by. After the thorough cleaning, I laid down my weary body and rested. Even God rested on the seventh day. It was all over. And in the end I didn't crap myself. I may have ruined the fuzzy toilet seat cover, but that's better then wrecking a bucket seat.

-- Pill Pooper