As I sat in Boston Market this afternoon, the age-old question of defecation came to mind.
"Why think about crapping when you're eating?" you say. Well, as stated earlier in my previous poop report, I am a Shameful Shitter. This being the case, I am ALWAYS thinking about shitting. I have to plan my day out as to when I will arrive home to take the ominous dump that has been brewing all day.
I have to be very careful what I eat when not within forty minutes of my own commode. The options have to be weighed out ever so carefully. Should I eat at Applebee's? Thirty-five minutes to evacuation. Should I eat at the diner down the street? Twenty minutes to evacuation. It's a tough job being a Shameful Shitter! You Shameless bastards have no idea!
I digress. I was looking down at my pile of meatloaf -- quite symbolic, actually -- and I had the thought that every Shameful Shitter has: "Will I make it home before I have to back out a deuce?" This is a common thought -- usually not much of a big deal. But today was Friday.
Friday is a pretty long day for me. It starts at 7:00 AM, when I rise, and it ends when I return home, usually past midnight. No stopping at my house in between -- we're talking seventeen hours without taking a dump. That's a long-ass time to not empty the chamber. But like I've said before, I'm a pro. I've gone 48+ hours without liberating the troops before, so seventeen hours without my own can should be a walk in the park. So I really didn't pay it too much thought.
I made it through the day, until about 5:00. At that time the Boston Market (quite ironic that their initials are B.M.) decided it needed to exit the premises. Being the pro butt clencher that I am, I coaxed the grogan back into the cave and continued my workday. I left work at six as usual and headed to pick up my buddy for our hockey game. I got him at 7:00 and headed to the rink.
The B.M. was beginning to back up on me. I was in some considerable pain -- but I'm a trooper, so I just dealt with it. My buddy, a self-proclaimed Shameless Shitter (I've seen this guy drop his pants on the side of the road and wave to passers-by as he crapped over the guard rail) knew I was in some pain, and began to poke at my belly, making off-color shit jokes the whole time. He's a heartless bastard and he'll get his just doo (haha) one day. But that's another story.
We arrived at the rink fifteen minutes before our 8:00 game. Plenty of time to take a crap... that is, if I could crap in the dirty, stank-filled locker room, which I can't. Plus, a few turd terrorists had apparently accosted the locker room after the game before ours. A stinky little brown turdlet was sitting on the floor and someone's initials had been written IN SHIT on the bathroom walls. Quite nice work, considering it was written with the nastiest brown crayon you can imagine. So, as if it ever was an option, taking a dump at the rink was totally out of the question. A locker room smells rank enough with a load of rotten hockey equipment in it -- it doesn't need to be compounded by the smell of a beached turdlet.
In all my years, all twenty-six of them, I don't think I've come across anything smelling worse then a piece of dookie out of water. It is an unmistakable smell that you can pinpoint from forty yards. The minute we entered the locker room, a good hundred feet from the murder scene, my buddy said, "Yeah, I smell shit." He's not the brightest of fellers -- and he looks like Kevin Bacon to boot -- but nonetheless, he nailed that turd at about thirty-five yards.
We played a fairly bad game, ending up with a 5-5 tie after a short overtime. I know you're all waiting for me to say I took a mighty hip check from a four hundred and fifty pound former Russian hockey player and he literally knocked the shit outta me. Well, that didn't happen. I didn't crap my pants, although I was in some serious pain from the cramps during most of the game. Crap cramps are something along the lines of getting your stomach stuck in a wine press, without the nice smell of Pinot Grigio. They ain't fun.
The game ended, we undressed, and I took Kevin Bacon Jr. home. We sat around his place for a few and wasted some time discussing politics and the nonexistent NHL season. (Only good thing about there being no season is that the Rangers can't suck this year.) I finally walked in my house at around 11:30.
The human body is an amazing piece of machinery -- especially the dirt hole. The moment I made the turn down my street, my ass knew it and started to make its presence known. The minute I pulled in my driveway, the bung began to pucker and twitch with anticipation. I did the duck walk into the house and ran up the stairs to the only crapper in my house that I use.
I have the run-with-your-pants-half-unbuttoned-and-half-around-your-ankles thing down to a science. I can do it with one hand on my pants and one hand on the railing of my staircase -- safety first, of course. As my body began to convulse and collapse amidst the doom that was about to befall it, I slapped my ass down and let loose a flurry of gastric proportion. And then it's over. All returns to normal.
So why do I torture myself? Why can't I just take a shit anywhere like all of you Shameless Shitters? That's my question.
I think it's all Freudian. Freud's psychosexual theory states that some of us get stuck in the anal phase of development. We need to hold on to everything that our body makes. And I think this is pretty damn accurate. I'm extremely anal retentive -- to the point that my fork and knife at the restaurant have to be exactly lined up. If they aren't, I'll fix them, EVERY TIME they are out of place. So I'm a lunatic, I might possibly have obsessive-compulsive disorder, and I can't shit in public. I'm doomed.
-- Pill Pooper
