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 FudgesiclePosted 08.10.2004 by The Holy Shitter (156)
It was late January and we were in Crested Butte Colorado for a magical ski vacation. I love Colorado and I love to ski; but the next best thing to the natural beauty of Colorado and the pleasure of skiing is the food and drinks there.
In Colorado, they have this authentic Tex-Mex cuisine that you just can't get in the southeast, where I live. Every time we go to Colorado, we get a monster burrito and a pitcher of margaritas. Also -- there is one restaurant in particular that we visit each and every time we're out there. It's called The Slogar, and it serves Southern-style cuisine with a catch. The catch is that it's all you can eat. That's right -- all you can eat cottage cheese, fried chicken, cole-slaw and biscuits with gravy. I am a fatass, therefore I eat a lot. Especially when on vacation and especially when I have been skiing all day. We also make it a practice to liberally consume alcoholic beverages when we're on our vacation. Once we get on the plane leaving Atlanta, it's hotel shuttles and public transportation to every destination. No driving responsibilities = maximum beer consumption. Combine all that with my psychologically Shameful bowels (I lock up tight when I leave my home) and you have some real hairy poop predicaments. We had been enjoying ourselves on the slopes for about three days. I had been eating and drinking with gusto, and shitting almost nothing. Each morning before hitting the slopes, I would sit atop the porcelain throne and attempt to download the previous day's eating and drinking debauchery. And each morning I would emerge from the bathroom feeling disappointed and defeated, unable to squeak out anything but a few unimpressive dingleberries that hardly equaled the amount of food and drink I ingested. I knew that a reckoning was due. I also knew that when you are coming down a mountain at high speeds and dodging moguls on black diamond runs, you have very few shitting options. But what could a fun loving glutton do? Stay inside during my yearly ski vacation? Go on a diet? Heck no! It was a very cold day and we had just finished an impressive run. We were returning to the lift line to head up to the top of the mountain when I felt a strong urge to fart. I was experienced in the dangers of farting while being loaded with shit, so I was very careful to let the gasses just eek out. But despite my controlled attempt to fire a blank, I felt a cold clamminess immediately afterwards. Underneath my long johns and my ski bib, a wetness seemed to creep down my ass cheeks. I couldn't be sure of the source of the wetness because I had taken a major spill on the run before and had some snow and ice in my clothing. I skied up to my buddy and told him that perhaps I had soiled myself when I farted, but I wouldn't know for certain until I sat down in the lift chair. He laughed his ass off and we headed together to the lift line. As soon as I sat down in the lift, I knew the source of the wetness. A foul odor covered us both, and the unmistakable feeling of shit caressed my chilled buttocks. (Having done my fair share of shitting myself, I know the feeling well.) All the way up, my poor friend was subjected to my burrito-grande-and-margarita stench. Maybe it was the grease in the fried chicken we had a couple nights before, or maybe it was the beer shits. I'm not sure. All I'm sure of is how horrible the ride up to the top of the mountain was. There had already been a bunch of snow and ice accumulated in my pants, and now there was the added wetness of the shit, and there was the smell, which was foul. I was a little embarrassed and very cold. We made it to the top, where we met several other skiing buddies. We had intended to take some nice long blacks down the mountainside. But after the longest ten minute lift ride I have ever taken, I was in no mood to tear up the mountain. My ass cheeks were numb at this point, and I reeked of poo. I informed everyone that I had shit my ski bib and that I needed to take care of some business back at the lodge. So I broke company with my buds and took the quickest route down the mountain. I returned to the ski lodge after my hurried run and disrobed, taking off my jacket and the soaked ski bib. Regrettably, my long johns were black, so I couldn't make out a skid in my shorts -- but what I did find shocked me nonetheless. In the crack of my ass and the seat of my long johns was a still-frozen smear of shit. It looked like I had shoved a snowball into my ass cheeks and given it a good squeeze. It was about six inches in length, with tapered ends and a fuller middle. It was light brown in color and crystallized. I had created a fudgesicle! A frozen shit treat! Bill Cosby would be so proud of me. I had made a pudding pop on the slopes. The only thing I can figure is that I was already half frostbitten from the snow and ice under my clothing at the time of the "incident." My extremities didn't have the surface temperature to melt the fudgesicle, therefore leaving me with the surprise discovery of a grogan glacier. I scraped the fudge pop into the toilet, threw the offending clothing into the dirty clothes hamper, and took a hot steamy bath to thaw my ass and wash the shit from my tired body. I regaled my skiing partners with the tale over dinner that night; for the rest of the trip, the topic both on and off the mountain was my fudgesicle. Post new comment
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