I had a moment of divinity the other day -- an epoophany, if you will. I was sitting on the can taking my daily deuce when it finally hit me: I am totally surrounded by Shameless Shitters.

Just about everybody I know can drop a biscuit at the drop of a hat. My father, for example, can shit just about anywhere. I remember when once we went fishing, he took my nasty bait rag and walked into the woods to break one off. Didn't catch another fish all day, incidentally. My brother constantly tells me how the first thing he does in the morning when he gets to work is back out a steaming pile of brownies. "It's the most effort I put in all day," he says. And there's Tommy. Every day at about two o'clock, Tommy heads to the bathroom in our office and backs out a deuce. He'll come back twenty minutes later and say, "I should be arrested for what I just did in there." There's my buddy Eric, who I mentioned in my last poop report. Eric is totally Shameless -- he could pop a squat in the middle of rush hour traffic.

And then there's Jim. Jim is the poo de grâce of Shameful Shitters. He can shit on, in, and under anything. I've seen him powershit in less than forty-five seconds flat. It was amazing. This guy should put on clinics for defecation. He's an artist.

The following poop report involves my good buddy, Jim. Jimmy, I know you're going to read this and I probably should have changed your name... but fuck it, I hate you anyway.

Jim and I are avid motocrossers. We love to ride dirt bikes at any chance we get. The tougher the trail or the bigger the jump, the better. This story involves a three-day sojourn we took out to a motocross park called Paragon, in a little podunk town called Hazelton, PA. Nice little town with nice little people. During our trek, we did what most travelers do: we ate diner and truck stop food. As many of you know, diner and truck stops produce probably some of the worst things you can put into your system. The food is about as edible as motor oil; and when it comes out, it comes out with a vengeance.

Still, we gorged ourselves on things we normally wouldn't even thing of eating -- mountains of sausage, piles of gravy, and pillars of apple crisp. We devoured all like we were cheetahs consuming a fresh kill.

The second day of the trip began normally. We ate at the local diner with Mr. and Mrs. Podunk, Pennsylvania. I had a chicken sandwich; Jimmy, on the other hand, was feeling froggy, so he went for the omelet. "That's a big bucket of bad news there, Jim," I said after he ordered it.

"Fuck it," he said. "If it makes me shit, I'll just pinch one off in the woods." Famous last words.

We rolled into the track about forty minutes after finishing our meal. We suited up and headed out for the first day of riding. I felt the crap cramps beginning to brew, but being the Shameful Shitter that I am, there was not a damn thing I could do about it. I knew if I was feeling it, Jim probably had it five times as bad. I could almost picture that omelet playing soccer with his colon, weaving in and out of his intestines and lining up that final kick through the sphincter. The grogan must have rang one off the goal post, because I saw Jim lean over the handlebars and hold his stomach for few.

I asked if he was okay. Ominously, he said, "I think I have to shit." Still, we continued our ride for another twenty-five minutes or so until we came up the worst trail I have ever seen. A trail made of giant soapstone boulders, with a STEEP incline. This was a trail designed more for hummers then it was for dirt bikes. (We found out later in the day that it was indeed not a motocross trail. The look of horror in the guide's eyes when we told him what trail we took pretty much summed up the peril we put ourselves in.)

I was the first to walk the tightrope with death. There was no turning around; I just pretty much just threw caution to the wind and went for it. I bounced off a few boulders, but I made it halfway down the trail to a flat spot without wiping out or losing any limbs. I was pretty fired up.

It was now Jimmy's turn to test fate. He slowly approached the first boulder (when I say boulder -- these thing were the size of Volkswagens), hit the brakes, and then went right over the bars, rolling about twenty feet down the trail. He righted himself, climbed back up to his bike, and kicked that bitch like it cursed at his mom. Round one went to the boulder. Round two: he made it another twenty feet before eating shit again. He went down hard the second time, getting pinned between the bike, a tree and a BIG boulder. I ran up the trail and helped get the bike off him. Round two: boulders. But this time it was a KO. He smashed his head pretty bad on the second fall, and I could tell he was in bad shape -- he tossed his helmet aside and puked up the entire omelet he had for breakfast.

I rolled his bike down to the bottom of the trail. He staggered his broken ass down to me. He sat there for a few minutes and then said, "Yeah, I gotta shit." And in classic Jimmy style, he then took off his moto jersey, took off his wife beater, and headed back behind a huge boulder to let nature take its course.

He proceeded to crap like man has never crapped before. Blast upon blast of feces spewed forth from his ass; even the trees began to weep from the mighty smell that was filling the area. I was standing a good thirty feet away, and the smell was just horrific. My eyes began to water and I actually gagged when I took a breath. It was so bad, I could almost taste it. After every audible blast, he would let out a small chuckle.

Fifteen minutes later, he emerged from the soapstone lavatory, a huge grin on his face and no shirt to be seen. "I wiped my ass with my sweaty wife beater," he said.

"I figured -- you're a dirtbag," I replied.

"Hey man, it's natural. I'm recycling." He threw his jersey back on and we returned to the truck to regroup and plan our next route.

We ate some lunch from the roach coach and headed back out for our second and final ride of the day. This time we decided to plan our route and actually use the map they gave us. We rode back to the end of the trail where Jim had dropped his breakfast just a few short hours before. Apparently, unfortunately, someone had walked behind the boulder to take a piss and stepped in the deep pile of what once was a sausage omelet. We could see the shitty tracks leading from behind the boulder and on to the soapstone. The debauched wife beater was hanging from a tree like a gutted deer, swinging gently in the breeze. Jim looked at me, I looked at him, and not a word was uttered.

At the end of the day, we headed back to the hotel to clean up and look for some local talent. The crap cramps were hitting me pretty hard by now, so when we got back to the room, I made a beeline for the can and proceeded to make quick work of my day's meal. It was a painful, yet extremely satisfying, dump. A kind of dump that makes you think about life and ponder its many wonders; a dump that, once it's over, you have a smile about being involved in such a masterpiece.

Jimmy, on the other hand, would not be so lucky.

After a rough day on the trail, Jimmy settled in to take probably the worst dump of his professional career. This was the kind of dump that can end a marriage -- the kind of dump that makes you pray God will take you mid-dump to end the pain. As I sat in the hotel room watching TJ Hooker, all I could hear were the cries of agony coming from the dump room. Each boulder that Jimmy hit with his dirt bike was now being passed through his dirt hole. Whimper after whimper, stone after stone, he soldiered on.

After thirty minutes, he came out, shirtless and sweating. He was red with agony and disdain. "Fuck that diner, we're never going there again," he said. And I just laughed. I had told him not to eat the omelet. There are few things in life that I trust, and omelets from a roadside grease house ain't one of them.

We rode for a short period the next day. Jim wasn't feeling all that well from the previous day's calamity. Turns out he had a concussion and some bruised ribs. Also turns out that he an acute case of food poisoning from that omelet. Needless to say, we won't be heading back to Pennsylvania anytime soon.

-- Pill Pooper