I have always considered myself to be an anal expert from the perspective of volume and smell. I hold the honor of being the only kid in my grammar school to have his arse mentioned in his school report. "He would be a very good student if he could control his flatulence," wrote a teacher who had the pleasure of hanging out a second story window, gagging for breath along with the rest of the class during one awesome Greek Literature lesson.
Through all of the fun-filled farting I've had several near-mud experiences, but I've always remained fully in control. However, the following experience is one that came a bit too close for comfort.
It was 7:30 AM. As a rep, I hit the road early, heading for my first customer about 250 miles from home camp. I'd been out playing pool the evening before, and had consumed a reasonable amount of lager and cried over one of the hottest, tastiest chicken curries the landlord had ever concocted. I felt a bit rough when I rose that morning, and cried again as I suffered the ring-sting of the liquid splattering from my spluttering piece. Due to this early evacuation, fool that I am, I thought I'd be safe for the 250 miles until the next bog.
Driving on the country back roads to avoid any heavy works traffic, the story continues.
8:15 -- My stomach has started making really peculiar gurgling/bubbling noises.
8:20 -- I feel the need to drop my guts, but remain slightly concerned about the follow-through possibility.
8:25 -- I attempt to risk a little push, only to abort, certain that contamination would occur. The smell that escaped from the push only makes matters worse.
8:27 -- I break a sweat as the nudging is now near intolerable. I'm desperately looking for a safe place to be one with nature in the trees.
8:30 -- O thank you God! In the distance, the savior of all roaming salesmen: the McDonalds M, signifying "shit here in comfort."
I hit the door at speed and ignore the woman behind the till as she manages to get out a "Can I H---?" My belt is undone and my trousers are halfway down as I enter the toilet. The only thought in my head: "Please don't let anybody be in here please not today..."
Mercy of mercies, the one and only trap is empty. My grots are down before the door is locked. I hit the seat as anal burning brings tears to my eyes, and follow with the shit explosion to end all shit explosions. The dump hits the water so hard that the watery shit mix splashes up to sooth my burning botty. In the face of such an evil danger, I praise myself on a job well done.
"Oh sweet heaven, that was a close one," thinks I, as I look around the cubicle for the bog roll. Yep, you guessed it. Not a single sheet to be seen. I start to cry once more. All I can think of is that I know that McDonalds' only have warm air driers in their toilets -- no hand towels.
To recap: I'm sitting in this McDonalds toilet, stinking to high heaven, with a shit-splattered arse, with no toilet paper, with no paper towels, with no idea how long I may have to sit and wait, and with my customer expecting me at a certain time.
I stand, hoping nothing will run down the back of my legs. I bag my jockey's and trousers so no contact can occur, but it's impossible to walk in any other manner except as one who has just shat himself. I wash my hands, open the door, and get ready to scream for assistance when a beautiful sign catches my eye: "Disabled toilet."
I waddle through the door, relieved that no one has seen me in my current state, only to find that this cavernous crapper also has no paper to offer. The Gods are against me. I used all my luck in finding this place -- now I must face my demons and stroll into the world with my sticky, stinky arse and bagged trousers.
I stand poker-faced in front of the serving girl. Without batting an eye, she asks if she can help me. I want to reply with "give me a bog roll NOW!" but no, my mind has gone to another level. Noting they have no bacon rolls ready, I casually order a bacon roll, praying nobody is behind me holding their nose. I then ask if the young lady would arrange for a toilet roll to be placed in the gents' while my breakfast is being cooked. She is very courteous, and says she will as she shouts something behind the counter. My breakfast will be ready in five minutes.
I thank her, and with my cheeks sticking and rubbing together, I walk as naturally as I can to some wizened 65-year-old angel holding out my holy grail: a fresh bog roll. Taking it, I quickly enter the bog to be greeted by a smell that is best described as the rotting flesh of something that died many years ago. I plant my botty and check for any clothing damage.
-- Mr. Whippy
