After a summer of good ol' bowel-cleansing home-cooked meals, I returned to college and fell immediately into a pattern of late night partying, lack of exercise and an uncaring attitude towards everything I put in my mouth, which was primarily cafeteria food. One particular week early in the semester, there were two days in which I produced nothing at all when I stepped up to the porcelain plate; and the other days did very little to get me out of my crapping slump. Even three days of an all-vegetarian diet failed to produce results.
After the second non-consecutive poopless day, I decided to take action. I bought some prune juice, drank two glasses, and laced up my running shoes. I always have to take massive dumps after a few miles running on the road, and I hadn't exercised since returning to school. I hoped that a good run would be my saving grace.
The first mile was painful. My overburdened organs bounced haphazardly and I soon developed a side stitch. Ignoring the pain, I pushed on, gradually increasing speed as I bounded through town. Eventually the weight in my belly crept lower and lower in my abdomen, and three and a half miles into the run, the familiar urgency erupted through my lower abdomen, much to my delight. I steered towards a Kroger's grocery store and kept a steady pace, with glutes pressed tightly together.
The store was filled with Saturday morning shoppers. The restrooms lay in the back. I continued my pace through the middle of the store, paying no attention as shoppers stopped to watch the tall male wearing sunglasses and workout clothes sprint through the store. The men's room was empty, and would thankfully remain so throughout the ordeal.
The chosen stall itself had been compromised by the last urinating user, and some custodial measures were needed before I could sit upon that throne. With the last ounce of energy in my anus, I clenched my sphincter shut, groped for toilet tissue, and scrubbed off the seat as hastily as possible, tossing the paper into the bowl. I turned to lock the stall door behind me when the levee broke.
The initial onslaught was, to say the least, disappointing. Despite the great pressure, the first combatant was nothing more than a cheek-snapping release of gas. The smell drifted up between my legs and I turned my head in vain from the overpowering stench. Moments later a fiery spray of liquid latrine lovin' blew out of my ass, spraying the sides of the bowl and leaving a burning sensation that singed the flesh around my hole. Next a nice round turd followed, plopping into the bowl, splashing shitty cold water up onto my buttocks. My face had assumed a perpetual look of pain, despite the actual satisfaction I felt deep inside.
Following the splasher, my colon silenced for what felt like eternity (but certainly must have been less than a minute). I leaned forward and put my head in my hands, twisting the hair on my head around in circles and pulling it tight. I knew this excursion was not over; but what was to come I could not have fathomed. I rocked back and forth on the throne, even sitting up and plopping down on the seat a few times, hopping to jiggle more loose.
Then IT made its entrance. My sphincter widened and stretched, feeling like it was completely tearing to shreds as the massive turd began to rear its ugly face out of my ass. I immediately stopped pushing out of fear -- I was sure my colon was about to exit my body right along with this monstrosity. But this relaxing of the muscles actually assisted the fiend along. It emerged what felt like two inches, and then stopped, mustering its forces.
I realized that this was nothing less than an epic battle. This was the Satan of Shit, no doubt the Demonic Dam of Defecation that had been obstructing my bowels all week. I felt like the Union Army defending against the Pickett's Crap Charge here on the Porcelain Plains of Gettysturd. I mustered my strength and pushed, bracing both feet against the legs of the stall, one hand gripping my hair, the other braced against the stall sides. The huge brown banana slid reluctantly further out my ass and I could feel its dry texture abrading against my anus as it went.
The initial fight went on less than thirty seconds; but again, it felt as time had completely stopped in this tiny little crapper cubicle, as though the battle at hand was nothing less than Apocalypse itself.
The turd writhed and lashed its way out of my ass, though it still clung tight. At some point I became aware that the tip of it had reached the water, though my adrenaline was rushing and I do not recall now exactly how I gained that knowledge. I lifted slightly out of the seat and looked between my legs. The brown submarine hung there like an undying crap corpse. I was petrified by what I had produced and could stand no longer to look at it protruding from my body like a broken spear. I clenched my sphincter as tight as possible and, with a sickeningly squishy sensation, snapped my toilet tail in two.
The lacerated log hit the water and slid into its liquid vault, quiet now, but still fearsome even in death. I sat on the crapper, staring straight ahead, aware of the task that must still be completed. I took a deep breath, ran my fingers through my hair again, grimaced, and with eyes rolled back in head, pushed with all the might left in my slowly fading body. The severed end of the turd re-emerged, irregularly severed from the clipping and angry -- but it, like its mate, was dying. Another strong push and the last remaining chunk slid out, flying into the toilet along side its drowned brown brother.
Although still wary, I knew deep down that the war was finally over and that I had emerged --dirty, tired, perhaps even bloody, but ultimately victorious. I stood, unrolling gobs of toilet paper, relishing in the abdominal relief that was rolling throughout my torso while observing my fallen opponent. My ass was hot and sore, but returned to normal. And to my delight, no blood had been shed.
The turd was thick, appearing heavily compacted and exhibiting great buoyancy in the brown water. The first chunk was about ten inches long; the second smaller, no more than four. I noted that, as a whole, this beast was not one turd but actually many turds that had been forced together after several days of brewing into a crap compilation. Like the rings of an old tree, this huge commode-o dragon was multiple layers and colors -- shades of black, dark brown and tan on the bottom, reflecting food from earlier in the week; and lighter shades of green and red at the top, reminiscent of the vegetarian diet I had employed the previous two days.
Later that night, while taking a nice and normal dump of the day's food, I would associate the banished brick with Victor Frankenstein's own hated monster. I dubbed this magnificent butt bomb the name by which I still call it to this day: Frankenstool. I will not deny there was some regret as I flushed my creation down the crapper; but the twinge of melancholy vanished as I stepped back into the sunlight and jogged home, amazed out how much weight it seemed I'd lost, feeling almost normal as I arrived back at the dorms in time for lunch.
-- Commode-O Dragon
