As I have written in a previous story, I practice the discipline of fasting. This has produced several interesting and entertaining poop situations. But the one I am about to write about is neither interesting nor entertaining.

It is with a sense of awe and horror that I recount to you the following story. I'm not proud of what I've done. I wish it never happened. But it did happen and, thanks to this site, I must tell the tale in all its sordid detail.

I had just come off an extended fast during which I had no intake but water and diluted fruit juice. This was a two-week fast, or fourteen days for the layperson. During the course of this fast, I had the normal watery diarrhea shits for a couple days beginning around day three, but nothing interesting to speak of. I made it to the toilet each time, and nothing made its way into my underwear. Actually, there had been remarkably little movement during the fast, which I appreciated.

Prior to the fast, I decided to feast. That's what it's always been with me -- feast or fast. So, for the week preceding the fast, I lived it up. One of my favorite dishes is from Outback Steakhouse: an order of cheese fries, double layered. These cheese fries are a heart attack on a plate, but damned tasty. Fresh and greasy, these homemade fries are absolutely smothered in cheese and bacon. You grab large handfuls dripping with greasy bacon fat-laden cheese and dip them into a bowl of ranch dressing for flavor.

I think that I ate at Outback twice during that week. The night before the fast I polished off my meal with a 22 oz. "Big Bloke" Bud Light. I remember thinking that my output had not nearly equaled my intake before the fast, and it did not seem to equalize after the first couple days into it. But then my bowels locked up tight. I did not shit, fart or feel the slightest movement for more than a week.

After fourteen days of not eating, I began to ingest small amounts of light foods, like salad and soup. Returning to a fairly normal diet after two full days, I awaited my first solid movement after ten days of shitting silence. If I knew what was about to befall me, I would have run for the hills, or at the least taken a laxative. I would have called the paramedics. I would have called my wife's OB/GYN. But, alas, I knew nothing of the impending disaster.

So it began.

I woke up early on a Monday morning three days after my fast. I felt that unmistakable urge to shit. (Although it had been awhile, I could never forget. Poop is my friend.) After some coffee, I headed to the bathroom to do my business. As soon as I sat down, some putrid farts came out my bunghole. I remember thinking that they smelled like old people -- really old people. They were a mix of mothballs and shit. The farts relieved some of the pressure, but I felt the head of the turd moving towards my opening. Slowly, but it was moving.

Normally my bowels are the poster child for regularity. I often shit, wipe, flush and walk out of the bathroom in a minute flat. But not this time. I had been straining for a little more than five minutes and produced nothing but foul air.

This is where the story gets nasty.

I knew that this turd was different from the others as it moved slowly towards my now-dilated starfish. First of all, the speed at which this thing moved told me of its enormous size. Second, my asshole was now uncomfortably dilated, and there was no relief in site. I bent over and peered into the toilet, moving my balls aside to view what was going on.

The monster loaf was crowning. I saw what appeared to be the base of a chocolate pineapple stretching my anus wide. I pushed, and it didn't budge. I strained, and nothing moved. There it was, just sitting at the exit ramp, but immobile as the Rock of Gibraltar.

I am a big guy, and hell if I am going to be bested by a stubborn grogan. So I bore down with all of my might. I pushed and strained for ten seconds like a woman in labor, and then took a breath in preparation for round two. I grabbed my knees and pulled my abdomen towards the floor, pushing with everything I had. And it moved! I knew I could move this unholy colonic monster. I pushed a third time and the pain started, intense and coming in waves. The pain was centered around my o-ring and growing with each second. I felt like I was going to tear in half.

I started to panic. What if I couldn't pass it? What if I "bled out," like they do on ER? I couldn't imagine my wife walking in to find her dead husband perched atop the throne with broken blood vessels in his face from pushing out a monster turd. Oh no, I wouldn't go like that; I would win. I always win.

The toilet water was tinged pink. Blood was now slowly dripping out of my torn rectum. The pain was growing and the turd was stationery.

It was at this point that I decided to end the war with the chocolate pineapple. I gathered a handful of toilet paper, wadded it up over my fingers, and started to work the turd out, digging at the brown baby with my TP-protected fingers. But, alas, the toilet paper, while covering my fingers from direct fecal contact, inhibited feeling -- and was therefore useless. I let go of the toilet paper and it dropped into the pink water.

I would never have dreamed that I would ever do it, but I had to make direct contact with shit. I steeled myself for the inevitable. In all of my years, in all of my fecal adventures, I had never had to make direct contact with poop. The closest I ever came was the occasional shit smudge when wiping a particularly messy load.

I extended the pointing finger on my right hand and went in. The turd was hard and compacted. Actually, I was shocked at how dense it was. I thought that maybe it would crumble off in my hand with a little effort, but I was wrong. It was work. I probed, poked and prodded, chiseling the beast down ounce by ounce. I remember thinking that simply working the edges away would take forever. My plan of attack was to dig deep, like in the movie Armageddon.

So I found a spot, and dug. And dug.

There was a point that I felt a twinge of embarrassment, but the pain reminded me of how important this was. Remember: I was in severe pain at this point, my asshole was fully dilated and rich, and red blood was dripping into the water.

Success! After a couple minutes of digging in one spot, I had bored a hole big and deep enough to upset the log's structural integrity. It started to collapse, and with collapse came some welcome relief. It started moving.

I had to do this twice more; and on the third round, the beast passed. It plopped into the toilet with one fell splash, and washed up a little toilet water that soothed my beleaguered sphincter.

There was a little normal stool behind the monster, which slid out effortlessly -- but with much pain.

I wiped carefully and cleaned up with some wet toilet paper. Looking into the bowl as I stood to wipe, I saw pieces of what was the largest, widest and most compacted shit of my life.

I scrubbed my fingers with soap and hot water.

After flushing the monster, I started to dab my balloon knot with some dry paper. Satisfied that I had only a minor tear, I wadded some toilet paper to act as a bandage and placed it in my underwear. Before leaving the bathroom I scrubbed my hands again, although the smell of compacted fourteen-day old fecal matter didn't leave me for days.

-- The Holy Shitter