The year was 1985. Ronald Reagan was putting the screws to the Soviets, John Hughes was turning Molly Ringwald into America's favorite sweetheart, Madonna was turning herself into America's favorite bimbo, and low flow toilets were still a distant nightmare. I was a high school sophomore that year, and on the day my story takes place, I was hard at work in my major field of study: getting high in the woods before classes.

Amongst the many covert gathering places frequented by the stoners of our school was a small pine forest located a few blocks from the campus. At any given time there was likely to be a small party in progress. That day was no exception.

It was soon to become the scene of a most heinous crime.

The day started like any other; by 7:00 AM, about a half-dozen of us were seated on the ground Indian-style, engaging in a hearty wake-n-bake. At some point I started experiencing some poo pains, but they weren't too intense and I didn't let them trouble me. In fact, the urge to purge even disappeared (briefly) after the initial round of cramps.

By 7:30 the rest of the group left in order to make it to school for the first bell. I decided to skip my first period class and stayed behind. With a half pack of Marlboros and a new Stephen King novel, I settled in and got comfortable. Before long, though, I was hit with another round of cramps that were much more severe than the first. A glance at my watch told me it was too late to go to school. (Ironically, I could afford the absence, but I couldn't afford the tardy. I'd already accrued two for the month, and one more would get me a day of in-school suspension.)

To be honest, I don't remember how long it had been since my last shit. I was quite irregular back then -- I wasn't yet a coffee drinker -- and it wasn't at all uncommon to go for a day or two without making a deposit into the porcelain turd bank. One thing was certain, however: my intestinal crap-o-meter was pegged at maximum capacity.

I got to my feet and began to pace, mentally reviewing my options -- or, to put it more accurately, my lack of options. I couldn't waltz into the school building for almost another hour. It would take just as long to walk home, so that was out. The closest commercial establishment with bathroom facilities was twice as far away as my house, so that wouldn't work, either. And I didn't know anyone who lived in the adjacent neighborhood. (And even if I did, they were probably in school where they belonged.)

I'd never shat in the woods before, but I soon realized there was no alternative. After resolving myself to the situation, I set about making preparations. From my book bag I produced five sheets of loose-leaf notebook paper, which I crumpled and smoothed until I had a pretty impressive collection of rather soft homemade toilet tissue. Then I surveyed my surroundings, trying to ascertain the best place to perform my dirty deed. Unfortunately the woods were rather sparse, and much of the area could be seen by anyone who might be approaching on the trail. As it turns out, the most concealed part of the little party spot was right where I'd been sitting. I considered digging a hole, but I had nothing to dig with. Besides, time was running short -- I was starting to brown cap. I decided to just drop my load, leave it where it was, and then split, like some deranged Easter Bunny from a child's nightmare come to life.

With all my preparation complete, there was nothing left to do but get down to business. I took one last look around, dropped my drawers, squatted, and proceeded to give birth to the biggest goddamn turd that's ever come from my body. Now, I'm not going to claim credit for one of those fabled eighteen-inchers; but with God as my witness, that sonuvabitch was a foot long if it was a centimeter -- and it was as thick as a man's wrist!

Given the outdoor situation, I was grateful for the nice, solid composition of that magnificent beast. In fact, I only had to use one sheet of loose-leaf notebook paper to wipe my ass. But good Lord did that motherfucker stink! Fellow PoopReporters have hypothesized that the submersion of a log in water helps to alleviate the smell of said log; and I wholeheartedly agree.

As it turns out, I didn't have much time to admire my handiwork, let alone its resulting olfactory assault. I had no sooner tucked the tail of my Metallica t-shirt back into my Levi's when I heard voices approaching. Panicking, I tried to conceal my shameful creation by kicking pine needles onto it. I got maybe three poorly aimed bursts placed before I was ambushed by two girls.

We'll call them Marlene and Lisa. They were seniors. Marlene was totally hot in a slutty, biker chick kind of way. In fact, her image was one of the most called-upon index cards in my masturbatory mental Rolodex that year. Lisa was her fat friend. Although the gals and I weren't in each others' primary group of friends, we did travel in the same circles, so we knew each other. But even at such a tender young age, I had Marlene's number: she was the kind of girl who was sweet and flirtatious if you had a bag of weed or a kick-ass hot rod. If you had neither, she was a cold, stuck-up bitch who wouldn't give you the time of day.

Because of this, you'd probably think I walked when she flashed that brilliant smile and asked me if I had anything to smoke. Well, maybe you gals would do so, but you guys know better. Even the most miniscule chance of getting laid will cause a horny teenager (or full-grown man) to do the most asinine of things.

I stole a worried glance down at my partially-obscured poop. It was camouflaged, but not hidden, dead pine needles sticking to its surface like sprinkles on some hideous Christmas pastry found in the deepest ring of Hades. At least the sparse blanket of foliage seemed to be controlling the stink.

Casting aside all common sense, I casually finger-smoothed my mullet and assured the buxom beauty that she had found the right man. Buzz-catching then commenced. For the next five minutes we stood around, passing a joint and making small talk. Despite my jitters, I managed to be quite charming. Marlene touched my arm while laughing at my jokes.

Before long, all fears of my titan turd being discovered dissolved into a haze of blue smoke.

But then Marlene said she was getting dizzy. And that she needed to sit down.

In my mind's eye, I see in slow motion what happened next.

Yes, she sat right on top of that monstrosity. I imagine it was still warm, but I don't think the heat had time to convey through that tight pair of Jordache.

This is because the mutilation of that gargantuan horror released an eye-watering stench into the air that forced me backwards a few steps.

Both girls let out a squeal of disgust.

Marlene sprang up and brushed off her rear, an instinctive response when one gets up from the ground.

She screamed in revulsion when her hands came away smeared with shit.

"Oh my God, you sat in dog shit!" I exclaimed innocently.

Marlene was hysterical. Lisa was dumbfounded. As for myself, my mind was racing, wondering how the hell I could extract myself from this very uncomfortable situation.

And then it happened, my only lucky break that morning: Mr. Ross, the assistant principal who went to great lengths to catch class-cutters, burst onto the scene. What had probably seemed like a routine bust turned out to be a most unusual situation for the poor bastard. Since he was uncharacteristically stupefied, and had his hands full calming down the frenzied girl, I used the opportunity to quietly steal away, like a thief in the night.

From what I hear, Lisa moved shortly after the incident and I never saw her again. I only bumped into Marlene twice afterwards, both times at crowded parties. Each time she averted her eyes and pretended she didn't see me. What was missing from her face, however, was her typical look of haughty superiority. I can only guess from this reaction that being smeared with poo is one of the great equalizers within the teenage social hierarchy.

-- PatrioticPooper