Originally published in the Poopreport forums
A little background: I made my living working as a courier for several years during my early 20's. I would putt around the Salt Lake Shitty area in a Chevrolet cargo van delivering such things as U.S. mail picked up from the Post office, blueprints, video tapes, inter-office documents, etc. to businesses and offices all over the valley.
For the most part my days consisted of repetitive route work, the same pick-ups and stops at the same time five days a week. I was happy to at least have some regularity to my daily routine because my bowel movements were anything but.
I ate terribly during this time in my life. Usually breakfast and lunch consisted of some sort of super sized/king sized combo meal from one of the major fast food outlets. Dinner was usually fast food of the Mexican variety washed down with copious amounts of 3.2 Utah beer. I would party every night, sleep about 2 hours and repeat the process the next day. (The joys of being 20 something and irresponsible!)
Due to my poor diet and overconsumption of alcohol, my bowel movements were frequent, massive, and highly unpredictable, “unpredictable" being the key factor to the first story I'll share with ya'll:
It was a miracle I even made it to work at all. I had not slept a wink the night before, opting instead to get drunk off my ass on cheap beer (Red Dog, as I recall) and doing the tube snake boogie with some fugly drunk chick who had less than a full set of teeth.
The morning came, the sun rose, I jumped in my work van - puked out the side - and proceeded with the day’s work. Hung over as hell and looking like death warmed over.
Things were going so-so. About 11:00 A.M I decided to take a break before my next delivery and stop at a local 7-11. I purchased some nachos, which I loaded with a ton of that artificial yellow goop they call cheese, and a huge ass coca cola slurpee. It was the biggest size they had, like 152 ounces or something.
Fast forward to about 2 hours later: I was driving to make a delivery to a warehouse out west in an industrial park area that was fairly new at the time and still had many phases under construction. While exiting the freeway near my destination, a spiking, stabbing pain hit my guts out of nowhere.
Folks, something was wrong.
I mean majorly wrong.
My stomach began making gurgling noises, my forehead started to sweat, and my asshole became moist and started to pucker. I could feel a tremendous amount of backpressure about to spray from my ass cheeks. This is it, I thought to myself. For the first time since like age 5, I am about to shit myself!
I had to find a toilet, and I needed one now! I remember entering the industrial park with tears in my eyes saying "Oh God" "Oh God" several times. I've never been a religious man; but for once in my life... and God listened. In what I can only refer to as a heavenly miracle or divine intervention, an orange port-a potty appeared about a hundred yards up the road almost like a desert mirage. I floored the gas pedal, slammed the brakes, and ran like hell inside. I pulled my pants down just as hot yellow nacho cheese lava shot out of my ass like old faithful.
I experienced about 9 fart spasms, each time resulting in more hot fondue spraying out. The best way to describe the sound is like when you are squeezing an almost empty ketchup or mustard bottle and it makes that farting sound. Then I would groan and repeat.
It was extremely hot inside the port-a-potty, almost sauna-like (it was midsummer at the time). I remember feeling very light-headed, disoriented, and exhausted after the ordeal, even though it couldn't have lasted more than a few minutes. It was one of the most painful, burning, energy-draining, diarrhea attacks I have ever experienced in my life.
When all was said and done, I had to take the obligatory look at my accomplishment. There is only one way I can describe it; it looked like some sort of new-age abstract art painting. Imagine the dark blue gelatinous toilet chemical substance splattered with neon yellow paint that just sat on top. The splatters resembled those inkblot pictures used in Rorschach tests.
Call me crazy, call it hallucinations, call it the onset of heatstroke, but on that day I swear I saw the shape of the Virgin Mary in that holy orange shit-shack.
Oh, and yes I wiped.
