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 The Fifteen Yard DashPosted 04.22.2004 by Chris (56)
First off: I'll establish the fact that I am twenty-one and have been fully in control of my bowel movements 99.999999999% of the time.
Except for one fateful day about two summers ago. I was driving back from Guitar Center in Natick, Mass. The drive home is about fifteen minutes -- ten, when traffic is light, although sometimes longer when traffic is heavy (Route 9 can be hell). On this day, traffic was quite heavy; I might even go as far as to say that the traffic was never-ending. Of course this was the ideal time for my stomach to wake up and yell, "Get me to an F'n toilet!" At first the urges were quite normal -- nothing that I wasn't prepared to handle. After all, the actual distance I had to travel wasn't long whatsoever. Since I'm a bowel monster, I've gotten used to handling a big load down under for quite a while. My luck, unfortunately, was soon to change. I held off these urges in my stomach pretty well until I hit the town border. Then all of the sudden the ache in my stomach amplified exponentially. I was literally driving around saying out loud, "Shit shit shit! Get out of my way... Oh my god I have to take the worst shit!" As I hit the bottom of my road, I attempted to formulate a plan as to how I was going to solve this little problem. Option #1: Run as quickly as possible in to my house, hoping for the best. Or, option #2: Sit in my car right outside of my house, and hope that the log waiting to be rocketed would put itself on hold for a couple of minutes. As I pulled up to my house, it became quite clear which option I was going to choose. I don't know what made me think this, but for some reason logic told me that parking in the road instead of in the driveway would be more helpful. The run to the house from the street was about fifteen straight yards, instead of a curve around the stairs. I guess I didn't want a twisting torso to accidentally release the beast. I parked my car, took the keys out of the ignition (definitely swearing quite a bit at this point), launched myself out of my car without bothering to close the door, and ran as fast as humanly possible with a shit just waiting to come out. I made it about 3/4ths of the way across the front lawn and just as I was about to hit the stairs, the devil inside said screw this, and my sphincter gave out like nobody's business. I managed to keep what was popping out in my pants, somehow sticking the key in the door and opening it while holding my shorts to make sure there was no leakage. I sprinted around my house to the bathroom. At this point, I had less than five seconds left until full and uninhibited launch. I managed to get my shorts and boxers off real quick, creating little piles of gorgeous brown mush in strategic places around the bathroom floor. It went all over the seat before the monster unleashed itself into the toilet. I don't know what it looked like -- honestly, I don't remember -- but I've never moaned in relief so loud in my entire life. Once done, I realized that I still had to take care of my soiled clothes. I wasn't exactly sure where in my house my parents would've wanted me to dispose of these kinds of things, seeing as the last time I had shit in my pants was in the early years. My shorts were clean enough for me to stick them with my normal laundry (shockingly, they didn't smell at all); however, my boxers were obliterated. So I went and took some paper towel, wrapped up the death that was my underwear, and just left them there until they got home. I also spent considerable time cleaning up the facilities, as my insides were in quite a few places. Needless to say, my family and I had a good laugh over the whole incident at the end of the night. -- Chris Post new comment
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