You may not like this story. In fact, I know you won't like this story. No so much the actual poop part, but because of the disaster and ruination the poop left behind.

This past weekend I had the great idea of taking the family for a few days at the beach. We went to Ocean City, NJ, for four days of surf, sun and fun. Three days into the vacation I commented to my wife about the changes the clueless bureaucracy has made along the boardwalk. For one, there were no more beach showers to rinse off the salt. They put in ankle sprays -- big deal. And there were only two toilets in a twenty-block area along the boardwalk. With two young kids and my active bladder, this was useless.

On the fourth day, we took our usual snacks and pre-made PB&J's along to the beach. About two o'clock, though, I was really feeling hungry. I went up to the boardwalk to get some munchies: an order of fries, a tuna fish grinder, an insanely large Coke, and a box of taffy. Everything tasted fine and went down without a hitch. About thirty minutes later, though, while I was half-asleep on my towel enjoying the sun, my stomach started feeling not so pleasant. Tuna fish! Why do I always mess with tuna fish? It had to be the culprit. (Though, in hindsight, the three-gallon Coke probably didn't help).

I sat up in despair, knowing it was a hell of a long way to any facilities. The crude, twisted side of me looked into the surf for possible reprieve. Between NYC, the local dumping, and the stories of needles and medical waste they've found on beaches, this sea has seen a lot worse then my tuna fish bowels.

But, having at least some diplomacy and discretion, I opted for the bathroom on the boardwalk five blocks up. I stood up quickly and, four hundred yards later, made it off the sand and on to the boardwalk. I should have faced merely a publicly viewed five-block shuffle to the bathroom. The only problem: I knew, even before I got to the boardwalk, that successful completion of this trek was not going to be possible.

Alternatives raced through my mind. Like a fighter pilot making a decision on dropping a bomb on a factory nestled in a village of civilians, I weighed the human consequences of the potential damage. Fortunately, a new idea quickly entered my mind. I would attempt a half-block shuffle to the safety of the family Ford Explorer -- which had blacked-out windows! I knew the keyless entry number, and the wife would never know the better!

I began the march, thinking about the proper container in the car in which to expel the tainted tuna. As I reached the truck and started typing the code, fumbling by accident as I thought of the issues I'd have if I couldn't get in. Like James Bond, I retyped the code three seconds before detonation. I opened the door, unlocked the rear doors, and hopped in the back seat. I was in.

I was feeling like a prisoner just escaped out of a tunnel, making it to the other side. But like that prisoner just beyond the fence, I suddenly realized I was far from freedom. My sphincter was in frenzy, angry about being held beyond its normal sphincter-holding abilities. My mind now began to wander -- man, was it hot in the car. And didn't it seem like a lot of people were passing by, too?

With business to conduct, I spotted an empty McDonald's cup on the floor. I figured the top opening of a McDonald's cup is roughly three inches; this should suffice for what I needed to do. (Anyone grossed out at the notion of filling a cup with poo at this point needs to realize my options were limited; and anyway, I've read worse on this web site.) I positioned myself perfectly between the two child seats and commenced the discharge. Checking every second or two during jettison for any deviation from the projected flight path, all looked good as the dowel of dirt entered the former milkshake holder.

All was successful, and I found plenty of napkins in the car for a very nice cleanup. It was still very hot in the car, and the smell was magnified by the heat. I topped off the cup with the wipes and exited into the clear, hot summer afternoon with cup of crap in hand.

Causally as possible when one has a cup of crap in one's hand, I scanned the area for any observers. Finding none, I smirked, knowing what I'd just accomplished under the radar of so many people who had walked by. I set the cup of desecration on the hood and went around to the driver's side to lock the doors. As I opened the door, the truck shook a little, and off the hood fell the cup of crap.

I quickly scanned the streets to see if I attracted any attention; luckily, I was safe. I locked the car and walked up the road about three car lengths before getting on the sidewalk and reversing direction to my way to back towards to the beach. As I passed my car, I saw that the cup had landed right on the curb, spewing the contents about a foot and a half across the sidewalk. This was not good -- but at the same time, it was over with, and there was nothing civilized I could do at this point but walk on.

I tried to put the whole episode behind me (literally), to just forget it and go back to the beach. My wife inquired if I felt better and what took me so long. I told her that it was a long walk to the bathrooms and yes, I did feel better.

We enjoyed the beach the rest of the day. Around 5:00, we packed up and began our walk back. Approaching the truck, I noticed a big brown mess all over the sidewalk. It looked as if twenty strollers and ten sets of footprints had passed through the sludge. You could smell the rank odor from fifteen feet away.

My wife commented, "Some idiots must have dropped a diaper here!"

I quickly agreed. "Yeah! Diaper!"

I changed the subject, loaded the truck and drove away. While driving, I was chuckling inside and vowing never to speak of it again, except for on this site, of course.

-- Crap4All