When I was but a lad of thirteen, I knew I was destined for toilet clogging greatness. Nary a month would pass without incident of my mudslide avalanche causing the porcelain town of Beamis to be overwhelmed with my puckered peter's offerings. Fortunately for the townspeople, mudslides were confined to the seasons in which dairy-based byproducts were at their apex. Christmas was one such occasion.

To illustrate such a mockery of good rapport between my toilet fair and my spitting sphincter: just a mere bowl of cereal would cause sharp fragments of Cheerios to screech out of my plunge pit at speeds unknown to aviation science. Fully complimented by a fine green ooze that would sprout forth from my upheaving bowels, the liquid froth and waste would cause my sphincter to close tighter than the legs of a recently diseased whore. Simply put, any dairy product and I were simply incompatible, destined to lead a love/hate relationship that always ended in mess.

But despite this knowledge, after each and every plea for mercy, my mothering mother would always retort, "You are not lactose intolerant, you probably are just stressed from the holidays." I swear the woman had an unsettling obsession with dairy; but it was my mother. Whom to trust better than her?

Our family was affluent enough to own a very large two-story home, and I was quite thankful. It was grandiose, a sight that made guests impressed at the mere fact we could afford the marble floor in the main hall, much less the eight other rooms that accompanied it. During this thirteenth year of my life, my entire family -- aunts, uncles, even cousins who fell off the tree and into the street (forgotten and not very missed) -- would show to celebrate the holidays after a long absence from such unity.

It was on such an occasion, my dear friends, that this monstrosity of spectacle occurred. To properly set the stage of events that would unfold in my untimely presence and state, you must first know a bit about me in order to understand its true impact. As many of you, I am a timid turder in nature. Not once has any living man or thing ever set foot near my Ode du Food. I also suffer from IBS -- which, like its acronym, is questionable in its meaning. Combined with my lack of dairy processing, my gut is a ticking timebomb of liquid stew spew. Let me clarify: my condition of IBS is specifically caused by stress, a trigger that would soon doom me to an existence of Quasimodo-like abandon after this episode.

At first just a few well-known members of our family arrived; with them, poignant memories flooded my id. Assaulted, my brain invoked the only response it knew from my thirteen years of existence when dealing with stress: IBS. Churning in the deepest confines of my darkest gut, my stomach acid played merry-go-round with all I had eaten that day. From eggnog to biscuits and milk, every product I had consumed with all of their dairy properties -- mixed in, mind you, with the stress of this event -- created one of the most wretched feelings I can ever recall. My experience was further complicated by the sound of a large internal fart emitting a gusty, loud noise, sounding as if a toad were being suffocated in the confines of my intestines. My Uncle Joe, near the catastrophe at hand, jerked his head toward my nearby location and asked, "What was that?" What was that indeed, Uncle Joe; but you were about to find out, despite my intentions of keeping the ordeal private.

We had been blessed with a total of five bathrooms in our house. One in my parents' master bedroom, one near the main entrance, one near the Jacuzzi tub (a cabana of sorts, in reality), one shared by my brother and I, and one in our guestroom. Sensing danger, and knowing my mother was inevitably going to convey the family into each of our rooms to show off their cleanliness, I retreated to the guestroom bathroom for salvation.

Conveniently, our guestroom bathroom was located precisely above our kitchen. Down below, the roar of champagne- and orange juice-induced laughter further unsettled my yearning plea for privacy. Yet I pulled down my pants and squatted. What was to follow was surely the epitome of culinary processing by the human body gone awry.

At first my ass simply burped a few clouds, like an ancient volcano showing the first signs of activity. Then the rush that hit my trunk was unstoppable. My well-learned sphincter opened as wide as it could and liquid simply rushed out of me at a speed I had no idea it could attain in a short, two-foot drop into the toilet water. Diarrhea and water both splashed my underside, creating an unsettling "not so fresh" feeling. I then pushed incredibly hard, further accelerating the oil from my innards into a final display of power. Like a fireworks finale launched from a moored boat in a nearby reservoir, my hole was overwhelmed with sensations, nearly sending me into a state of unconsciousness. When I regained my composure, it was all over.

As I wiped myself sterile, everything that led to this pinnacle seemed all but a distant dream. Because my underside was so very wet, and because I needed to head downstairs shortly to rejoin my relatives -- lest they become suspect of my criminal deed -- I wiped with much ado and finally felt clean.

Reaching behind me, I flushed and watched the water swirl. Swirl. Swirl. 'Round she went. Stop. To my horror, as my brain finally took in the sight, the very bowl was white with toilet paper. (I had a tendency to overuse it, as any classmate of mine would tell you. I often heard "ass smeller" in the hallways, despite the fact I was never caught smelling another's ass. To compensate, I used fistfuls of toilet paper to maintain a level of cleanliness. This would be my downfall.)

As my head twirled, my mind evacuated my body. Finally my brain stepped in to handle the situation. Like a well-trained Army recruit performing a task to impress a drill sergeant, I grabbed a nearby plunger with both hands and plunged deep into the bowl. In and out, in and out. Harder I plunged, deep into the murky depths of Mordor, where Sauron grew stronger; but to no avail. Then I did what any thirteen-year-old would when faced with impending responsibility of dire consequences: I ran.

I ran fast down the steps, faster than my chicken-legs would carry me. I stumbled down the staircase at a speed only cheetahs reach, patted down my hair, and then entered the kitchen.

I was overwhelmed by the sound of twenty-five people inside our lofty canteen. My Mom smiled warmly at me and beckoned me to come near. I went and stood next to her as my aunts and uncles prodded me and remarked how tall I had gotten. My mother sensed something was wrong, but my guilt had not manifested itself to speak yet, so I told her "nothing" and wandered into the crowd.

Our kitchen was quite open, and in the center was a counter island where all the food was kept. As I strolled amongst my relatives I plucked cheese and other delis from the glass plates upon the island, nibbling at them timidly for fear they might induce another episode. As I stood eating, I noticed my Uncle Jack's casual sportswear jacket had droplets on its shoulders. I looked outside for justification but found only sunshine. I think at this point in the game I fully realized the impending cataclysm; but my young mind felt tranquility in the ignorance of such fact finding. Until, that is, she spoke.

My Aunt Jessica was one loud, intolerable bitch of a woman. Fat as an ox, with hooves like a cow, she emitted one of the loudest yells that has ever breached human lips.

"WHAT IS THAT???"

The teeming crowd of family turned and gazed skyward in wonder. On the ceiling were the telltale droplets of water. Then the sound: splish. Splash. Splish. Splash. Louder and faster it came. And then it was noticed that the countertop island, with the responsibility of hosting the food, was wet. (In the misfortune of things, the island was a clear white -- making this hard to detect at first.)

Was it a roof leak? There was no rain. Was it the sink leaking? Yes, yes, it was the sink leaking. My mind, using psychic powers, tried its hardest to convince all in the room it was the sink leaking. My mother was the first to run, up our wooden banister, over the catwalk, and into the guestroom. Following closely, my father trailed her path, seemingly blazing the way for all others to see. Suddenly the mystery was one to be solved by many, as all my relatives headed up stairs. My Aunt Jessica turned to us, only my cousins and myself remaining, ordering us to move the food to the other room. The water dripped. We all looked up. Then we heard the scream.

The water came with even further force, resembling a shower confined to a ten-foot diameter of ceiling. Maybe because the smell was not of detectable odor was the reason my cousins and I delayed in our Aunt's good wishes. Or perhaps, at least in my mind, we were too mortified to be broken from the trance of standing there and doing nothing. Then a smell as rank as the ass from which it birthed struck us.

Please note, good readers, that the water was not infested with brown inking that would tell one it was sewer water. To pretend such an anomaly would be to embellish the facts. Through a cruel act of fate, this water was being micro-filtered by the carpet on the guestroom floor and the plaster ceiling in our kitchen. Still: it was shit and piss water; let's not soften that fact.

My cousins and I then sprung into action. We grabbed the plates untouched by the foul swill as fast as we could, flinging them onto the floor with enough care not to break them but regard for little else. Working in unison, we cleared the table in a short few minutes. As our forbearers returned from the guestroom, each of us was questioned in regards to responsibility.

In my heart of hearts, I truly believe that my family knew it was me. Perhaps they were trying to be fair. Or perhaps they were looking for me to be honest. Neither worked, as I kept myself tight-lipped. As our parents cleaned up the mess in the kitchen, many questioned whether the water had tainted the food they were eating. The leak had been spotted well after I had returned; and, to tell you honestly, to this day I cannot come to grips with that. What I did do, however, was avoid kissing my family on the lips until the next time we saw each other, years later.

-- Sinning