This happened many years ago, so details are hazy. But I clearly remember it beginning at Epcot Center, near Disney World. It was a typically hot Florida day, which, as anyone knows, is never a good thing when it comes to pooping. On the way out of the park, my bowels nagged at me, saying, "Now would be a good time to dump." But Disney World bathrooms, on the whole, always freaked me out. The bathrooms were never conveniently located and were always far from clean.
I weighed my prospects. A) Wait for my clean, quiet bathroom at the condo we were going to stay in. B) Chance the greasy, crowded crappers located God knows where in the park.
I hastily chose A. This probably would have been a good choice if I was driving myself home, but I was a young child then, so my parents drove. To this day, deciding not to crap in the park remains one of the worst pooping decisions I have ever made.
Upon entering the car, things immediately turned for the worse. Everyone knows how hot cars get inside when they are left in the heat. They're like ovens when you get back. My bowels (and parents) told me to hop in. The sooner I get in, the sooner I get there, I thought. But the heat soon became a ruthless catalyst to my cramping. I could tell once we pulled onto the highway my shit would not be contained.
"Mom, can we pull over?" I asked. She refused, claiming the condo was not far off. Let me tell you, friends, I had made this trip before, and it was a long one. I waited a reasonable amount of time (reasonable for the stress I endured); soon, my ring screamed for relief. I must have angered God or some spiteful witch doctor at some point, because the pressure I felt was somewhere between atomic and paranormal.
Sweating bullets, I desperately searched for some vessel to contain the riot boiling over in my already stressed and swampy ass. I saw a plastic bag. PERFECT! I knew it would be a real dumb idea to let loose hell in a bag, in the heat, with a car full of my family members. I gave a warning. "Mom, I'm gonna use this bag."
"You better not," she replied sternly. To add insult to injury, my brothers began teasing and taunting me. The mental and physical anguish was intense. My asscrack was about to become ground zero for one serious fecal catastrophe, and there was nothing I could do. The bag, my only source of relief, was adamantly denied. I was in hell.
Surprisingly the "One Ring" made it through the epic journey (with the help of some dedicated ass cheeks and hand support). The fact that my body survived the trip without severe internal damage was a miracle and a true testament to my willpower. When we finally pulled in to the condo park I remembered one thing: we had yet to check into a room. My parents decided to visit Epcot even before getting our room, much to my anus's dismay.
I must not have been thinking, because what I decided to do next was something I cannot explain even to this day. My first thought when I jumped out of that van was, "find some foliage." Unfortunately, the condo park was scarcely gardened, save some palm trees, which would provide no cover.
I noticed that each condo had a single run of bushes in front of them. My mind was racing. There seemed no other alternative. I darted over to a random house, ripped my shorts down, and unlocked the floodgates. Expecting a lava flow between my legs, I was quite surprised at the outcome. My bowels and turds must have signed an impromptu peace treaty before their departure, because the escape was painless -- very quick, but sting-free. The consistency felt like a mixture of creamed corn and applesauce; upon my hasty inspection, I would say that it looked just about the same.
But -- I was literally relieving my bowels right in front of someone's door. My eyes and mind focused on that doorknob. Even the slightest movement on that door would've sent me flying, pants down, ass drizzling. Could you imagine? Opening your door and being welcomed by a strange little boy squatting directly in front of you, squirting fertilizer under your bush? I could only imagine what any potential onlooker would do to me after witnessing this.
Also, keep in mind that anyone who would see me would be my neighbor for at least two weeks.
I released just enough to relieve a majority of the pressure, and took off. I returned to my parents at the check-in desk, feeling like I got away with murder. I found out not too much later that there was a bathroom right outside the office, by the pool. I took a major and needless dumping risk. At the time, I thought it was funny; but I can only imagine what would have happened if someone had come out of that or any neighboring door. To this day, I am curious who first saw that steamy grease pile and how they reacted.
-- Turd Burglar
