Summers in Cape Cod Massachusetts are as hot as the Italian City Girls and rich Abercrombie Poster Models that flock to it during the season. People seek refuge in the cool Atlantic waters as an escape from the miserable 9-5 reality they live in. While the tourists stick to their beaches and cottages, the locals... well, we have our own traditions that need not be tread on by the inexperience of the city folk. One such tradition is "Bridge Jumping."

In the Cape, the ocean reaches the shore and creates smaller inlets, coves, salt-water ponds, and rivers. Sometimes, these flowing rivers require a bridge for passage. Some bridges are 10 feet high, while others are 100. The locals often use these bridges as launch pads for their aquatic horseplay. My friends and I were such locals.

On one fine day, we had been jumping for hours when a friend of mine, Roger, began to complain of stomach pains. After his final jump, he said the impact of the water nearly made his stomach explode. He fled the scene and we didn't see him until the following day. No one knew the perils that would plague him that evening...

When Roger returned home, he retreated to the bathroom and sat on the toilet. Involuntarily, his body was trying to push what felt like a softball out of his ass. Pushing and groaning and pushing and groaning, he only managed to fart. He really thought death was near.

He went to bed for a while until the attack came again. Again, he fled to the lavatory only to suffer the same let down. His whole body spasmodically pushed, but there was no result except a few roaring farts.

A headache ensued. He went back to bed.

Three more times he went through the same process -- migraine-inducing pushing with no result. Finally at midnight, when everyone was in bed, he awoke with that familiar urge. This time, he would just play it cool. He knew it was going to be a false alarm. Or... was it?

His body went into the pushing motions and he began to force with all his might. In a climactic spasm of vein-popping effort, a softball sized loaf rocketed like a bullet from his balloon knot and into his underwear. Panting, sweaty, and generally astonished, he rolled out of bed and felt the sphere that lay cradled in his skivvies. A surge of glee overcame him. He yanked off his underpants and held them gingerly by the band like a precious treasure.

He went to the bathroom to flush it, but the beast was too large for his domestic throne to handle. Naked and giddy like a triumphant little puppy, he marched through his living room, through his dining room, and into his kitchen, where he grabbed a zip lock bag, put it on his hand, went back and removed his unwanted guest out of the toilet.

Still naked, still full of glee, he stepped outside, walked to the curb, and tossed his prize into a trashcan -- underwear and all. As proud as a man can be, he confidently strolled into his kitchen and had some juice, retreating back to bed to sleep the sleep of a king twenty-minutes later.

What could have caused such an intestinal anomaly? Did the repeated insertion of his body into the sub-marine conditions actually pack the doodie into a hard, round ball? Did the pressure caused by all those dive-bombs push salt water up his ass, where it was absorbed by a pre-existing poo which subsequently expanded to the point of no exit? Or was it actually a misplaced and forgotten Limpet mine that somehow got blasted up his bottom during one of his aquatic assaults?

The bottom line is that it didn't happen to us, and that is all that matters.
-- Jeff