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 A Problem Down UnderPosted 01.16.2003 by adamdodici (11)
My bowels have a tendency to declare a state of emergency at the most inopportune times. Like when I'm on a date, or in a subway, or even worse -- when I'm wandering around a foreign city.
Two years ago, I was in Melbourne, Australia, backpacking with a friend of mine. We decided to see some of the sights in the city, notably the Australian Museum of Sport and the stadium where the 1956 Olympics were held. Let me preface this story with an explanation of the hostel I was staying in. The hostel was in the worst part of town possible -- Melbourne's Central Business District, across the street from a porn shop (the Wild Horse), in an area where 24-hour construction was legal. The bathrooms in the hostel were filthy -- wads of toilet paper all over, nasty flooded floors, no doors on the stall, random foreign people wandering in and out. It was like staying in a hotel in Somalia. It was so bad that I was either pooping at the train station across the street or eating a daily Imodium to keep from going at all. The night before my friend and I explored the city in depth, we were out at a Hard Rock Cafe, where I devoured Buffalo wings and fajitas and spent the evening drinking vodka and flirting with some local girls. Not the nicest way to treat a stomach -- especially considering the Imodium cocktail I had for breakfast. Afterwards, we proceeded back to the hostel and drank in their bar -- a place that only needed someone getting their arm cut off with a lightsaber to complete its resemblance to the Mos Eisley Cantina. The next morning, we were four blocks from the Australian Museum of Sport when my stomach turned on me. It sounded like somebody was starting a truck in my gut. I started to walk faster, and as we got to the ticket window, I let out a great gurgling fart. People in line stared at me. We got to the window and I breathlessly asked for the bathroom. The ticket window operator dryly told me to go down the hall. I slapped ten dollars down and told my friend to grab my ticket and meet me at the group tour starting point. I turned and ran, holding my clenched cheeks with my hands, towards the nearest bathroom. I came careening around the corner to see a man and his young son head into the men's room. The only other option was the handicapped/adult-assisted room. I pushed through the door and ran to the toilet, where I promptly let out a huge fart and then the gushing Niagara Falls content of my stomach. It was like a melting glacier of fire -- liquid hot magma poop with boulders of flame. After five minutes of constant relief, I looked over to see that there was no toilet paper. This was the handicapped bathroom, and it was large, so I turned my head this way and that, looking for a cabinet or storage area. There was NOTHING. I had on an undershirt, but it was cold that day; and I didn't want to use my socks. There was nothing in my backpack except for my camera and my passport, both of which were either too valuable or too pointy. Frantic thinking produced nothing. Finally, in desperation, I noticed -- next to the door, across fifteen feet of tile floor -- a wall rack of wax paper toilet seat covers. Managing to take off my shoes and pants while still sitting on the toilet, I threw them to the far corner and waddled across the room, leaving faint brown drip marks in my wake. Wax paper is not absorbent. The coating is like Teflon -- nothing sticks. I only managed to get little pieces of poo with each wipe. After about 15 minutes of wiping, I got my ass clean enough to go back outside and face the world. My friend was standing there, in the middle of a tour group, and everyone was glaring at me. "We're late. They waited for you." I hung my head in shame and noticed the faint brown drip marks on my boots. -- adamdodici Post new comment
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