Lady And The Cramp

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PoopReport of the Year Awardl 100+ pointsm 1+ points - Newb
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She was so elegant and beautiful that I immediately forgave her for having a
snooty nickname like "Gigi." We became friends in Washington DC in 1995
when she was fresh out of law school -- a hard-charging, hard-core yuppie -- and
I was her bartender (and an earnest culinary student.) I liked the way she
smoked -- she held her cigarette straight up and tilted her head back a
little on her neck; it was the pose of a Hollywood starlet from the heyday
of modernist grandeur.

Gigi could have been a movie star if she weren't
happier as a corporate litigator. A corona of long, dark lashes accented
her arresting, translucent-blue eyes, framed in further contrast by the sort
of avian cheekbones usually found only in European royalty and Calvin Klein
models; and perfectly straight, glossy, coal-black hair that fell to
mid-shoulder.

Gigi's everyday conversation captivated me. My Maine bumpkin ears delighted
as she shared lurid tales concerning silver-dollar surnames misbehaving in
cloistered dinner clubs with corseted-curtain windows and mahogany moldings.
It wasn't snobbery -- at least, not to my mind; but a rare window into a
gilded place where clumsy, rough-shod provincials like me never tread.
Eventually people like Gigi converge on Manhattan to socialize and,
ultimately, to spawn baby WASPs, and when she left, she gave me her number.
"Call me if you ever come to New York," she told me. Six years later, I
did.

After my culinary career ended last summer with an entrepreneurial defeat, I
enrolled in graduate school (at the age of 30) to learn things that might one
day land me the kind of job where I could go to bed early without
grease-burns on my wrists and the stink of shallots and shellfish
permanently ground into my fingernails. Two weeks ago, on the trail of some
sort of highfalutin office gig for a summer internship, I went down to New
York to chat up prospective employers. I could have called my usual
friends, but I didn't want to risk spilling bongwater on my only suit, so I
called Gigi instead to ask if I could stay with her.

"Oh, my GOD it's good to HEAR from you!" she said. "How on Earth ARE you?
Yes, OF COURSE you MUST stay with me!" A newly-minted partner in a Wall
Street law firm, Gigi was still single -- and still married to her job. "I
doubt I'll be home before nine," she told me, "but I'll leave word with the
doorman that you're coming." Doorman? She had a doorman?

I got off the bus with time to kill, so I met a friend at a barbeque place
in the West Village where I devoured a rack of ribs, smoked half a pack of
Camels and downed six or seven beers. I finished the night with a Tequila
shot and a plate of chili fries. As I weaved my way up to Gigi's building
with my tattered suit-bag in hand, my pores hummed out a fugue of
multinational flavor -- a polyphony of Eastern spice, Virginia tobacco and
Austrian hops. The doorman frowned as he stared down his wrinkled nose at
me, but he handed over a key anyway. Did the elevator operator expect a
tip? He glared at me as he shut the cage, still holding the two dollars I
had given him.

I stepped out onto the plush, carpeted hallway and into a gallery of somber
art in fluted gold frames, dark wood tables and eagle-crested, gilded
mirrors. Believe me when I tell you that nobody hangs art on the walls of
my apartment building in Boston and the only furniture one finds in the
hall is on its way to the trash. I unlocked the door of Gigi's apartment
and entered into a tastefully-decorated, five-room wonderland of 12-foot
ceilings and fluffy cats. I could have hosted a cooking show from her
kitchen, a parabolic amphitheatre of ceiling-high windowed cupboards
focused on a gleaming, restaurant-quality chef's island in the center of the
room, bathed beneath the soft glow of a canopy of electric tea lights.

"Make yourself at home," advised the note on the counter, and I did, opening
doors and wandering corridors and gaping out the window at the views of
park, city and river. What the hell was I doing in a place like this? I
found a TV shuttered in an armoire and I sat down on the couch to watch the
news and await Gigi's arrival, looking periodically at my reflection in the
window to make sure I looked OK. Was my shirt straight? Were my socks
pulled up? Did they match?

And then the ribs hit me.

Ladies and gentlecrappers, when I say my stomach churned, I mean you
actually could have seen my intestines bulging and wriggling as the bolus of
pork and beer and potato worked its way down -- the same sort of dizzying,
spiral motion created by a stadium full of people doing the wave at a
football game, and accompanied by a borborygmal roar almost as loud as any
NFL crowd. I realized that I had been sucking in my not-inconsiderable
stomach in some misplaced effort to appear as svelte and fashionable as the
models in a Ralph Lauren ad in case Gigi walked in, but there could be no
containing my belly now. My gut swelled up like a ripe May apple, bulging
and ready to pop, so I removed my belt entirely to make space for it, and
even then it pulled my waistband as tight as the strings of a violin. I
felt my cheeks getting flushed and my forehead getting moist, so I stood up,
a little panicked, a little unsure of what to do next.

Gigi's apartment had
two bathrooms: one next to the kitchen and one next to her bedroom; but
neither had a ceiling fan, presumably because the bathrooms dated from the
same era that produced the charmingly antiquarian marble and brass fixtures
on the sink. I debated which one to use. What would happen if Gigi walked
into her apartment and got hit in the face by the shock wave from a
mastercrap?

In the bathroom next to the kitchen, I took a leak, trying to make space for
the growing, rancorous mass in my midsection. I was pretty sure I could
clamp my buttlips tight enough to contain my crap -- at least for now -- but
what would I do about the hurricane of flatulence brewing within me? With
my trou still unbuttoned, I decided to let off some steam. I bent at the
waist and twisted my torso a little bit, as if I were looking over my
shoulder at something interesting, and I farted out a maniacal, soprano jet
of bilious wrath. I didn't shit in (or on) my pants, but the thick wet
stink that came out was a prediction of something awful, a terrible beast,
snarling and clawing and fighting to be free. And, oh, how the vapor burned
as it escaped!

Then, suddenly, one of Gigi's cats scratched at the door and
I nearly had a heart attack, thinking that perhaps Gigi had overhead my
emission. Pulse pounding in my ears, I ran the hot water, trying to float
my stink skyward on wings of steam. Would the expensive perfumed soaps be
enough to mask the smell? And what would I do when it was time to face my
demons and birth my monster?

I walked out of the bathroom and back in three times to evaluate the air
quality before I finally decided to close the door firmly. I returned to
the couch, trembling still from the adrenaline in my veins courtesy the
feline assault on my tranquility. I closed my eyes and prayed for
intestinal fortitude, or else a quick deliverance from this situation, and
two minutes later, Gigi arrived.

She looked almost exactly the same, perfectly and primly dressed, maybe a
tiny glaze of grey in her hair, but not even the hint of a wrinkle scored in
her milky white skin. Botox really does work, I guess. "How ARE you?" she
asked. "You MUST tell me WHY you stopped COOKING. Don't you know CHEFS are
SEXY? Come, let's have some of that LOVELY WINE you brought me." I closed
my eyes and meditated on Fort Knox as she hugged me -- blissfully, she
held me loosely and briefly, a perfunctory and salutary hug, not the kind
we give people up in Maine, which resembles the grasp of an angry python.
Had she been more sanguine, she would have squeezed two pounds of molten
liquid shit right out of me, down my pants leg and onto her gleaming
hardwood floors.

We sat on stools at the kitchen island. In a few rapid-fire motions,
Gigi produced a cheese board and two large, gleaming crystal goblets of
Pinot Noir. I wanted to sit with my back straight to project the same air
of confidence she exuded, but I had to hunch forward about thirty
degrees to accommodate the pork bomb ticking away inside me. Each sip of
wine burned as I choked it down, adding tannic acid to the hydrochloric pool
backing up in my colon. It was a monumental effort to
focus on our conversation, and I took no delight this time in her
small-toothed grin as she divulged pernicious gossip about important people.

I felt like a rock climber, trapped on a raw and barren face, hanging on
with waning strength, unsure of what to do next, with no clear handhold in
sight. I wasn't sure how much longer I could last...

And then the cheese happened.

Gigi wouldn't let me refuse some of the "FANTASTIC Roquefort and Camembert"
she got from some posh and storied deli downtown. "No, thanks," I told her.
"I've got to watch my figure." "Don't be SILLY!" she cackled. "Now be a
GOOD little chef and HAVE SOME! It is TRULY DIVINE." As one who had spent
fifteen minutes in silent and continuous communion with my deity, I thought
I had a pretty good fix on what "truly divine" meant -- and adding a stinky
French cheese to my huddled masses yearning to be free simply wasn't it.
But how could I refuse?

I took a bite of Roquefort -- it should have been
called "Beaufort," given the winds it produced -- and my stomach broke free
from the restraints imposed by my iron will, resuming its vigorous churning
like a washing machine that just began the rinse cycle. A thunderous rumble
tore through my gut and I wriggled uneasily on the barstool. "Oh, this IS
good cheese," I said, my voice barely audible above the deafening rage of my
digestive process.

Some people think that they can live forever if they take the right vitamins
and get enough exercise. Some people believe that they can build aircraft
that will counter the force of gravity, if only they find the right
technologies. Some people are convinced that peace and harmony will wash
over Planet Earth if they simply join hands and sing and pray. On this
particular Thursday night in November, I had been laboring with a similarly
misguided hope, namely that I would somehow stifle my log until after Gigi
had gone to sleep if I just tried hard enough. Friends, I am here to tell
you: just as death and gravity and war tend to win out in the end, so
too is poop an inexorable force, and after my second bite of Roquefort, with
my stomach kicking around like a sixty-pound Marlin on ten-pound test, I
finally gave in.

"Gigi," I asked, "would you excuse me?" And I headed to
the bathroom near the kitchen -- there wasn't time to go anywhere else.

My initial fart hissed and spat like a propane tank with a broken valve -- it
just went on and on and on. I closed my eyes and hoped that perhaps the
methane would kill me and spare me the shame I was about to endure. There
was a second -- maybe two seconds, even -- after the shrill echoes of that
incredible marathon fart had subsided against the staunch porcelain-tiled
walls, a calm before the storm during which I actually still thought that I
might escape with my pride and my sphincter intact... but then the mayhem
began.

With a staccato report, I machine-gunned out a few turdlets in prelude, and
then the sour and biting diarrhea poured out with a heavy splash, like a
dump truck of gravel being emptied slowly into a swimming pool. It wasn't
just Gigi who must have heard the cacophony -- probably everybody on the
entire island of Manhattan turned on CNN to see if there had been another
terrorist attack. Oh, god. How was I going to face this? I started
laughing and crying all at once and as each convulsive heave of laughter
racked my midsection, out came another spurt or chunk of burning stool. For
five minutes more, laughing, farting, wet drippy shits and tears ... and then,
with a rumble and a whisper-soft "pffffft!", I farted out my last gasp of
pork.

If Gigi had somehow failed to hear or smell the main event, the four flushes
required to fully dispose of my dung could not have escaped her notice. It
took me a few minutes before the mirror to compose myself. Without a belt,
my pants hung a little low on my waist now that the evil had been exorcised.
Finally, I switched off the light and walked back out into the kitchen.

"Well," Gigi said, "you've probably got to get up early for your interview,
don't you? Let me show you your room."

-- Mastercrapper

Like Mastercrapper? He's featured in The Journal of Ass Production!

63 Comments on "Lady And The Cramp"

Pooperscooper's picture

'borborygmal roar' what a choice of words! All fans of Poopreport.com deserve to know that 'borborgymus' is a rare and wonderful word--medical Greek for 'intestinal-rumblings-caused-by-gas'.

Brother Mastercrapper, you seem ordained by Fickle Fate to have picaresque poop adventures. You should consider carrying a small box of good quality kitchen matches on you at all times. A lit match or two plus a prayer to Cloacina the Latrine Goddess will eradicate even the most ghastly stench from a Mastercrap.

Dave's picture
PoopReport of the Year AwardComment Content Moderatora 10000+ points - Super Pooper

"Some people think that they can live forever if they take the right vitamins and get enough exercise. Some people believe that they can build aircraft that will counter the force of gravity, if only they find the right technologies. Some people are convinced that peace and harmony will wash over Planet Earth if they simply join hands and sing and pray. On this particular Thursday night in November, I had been laboring with a similarly misguided hope, namely that I would somehow stifle my log until after Gigi had gone to sleep if I just tried hard enough. Friends, I am here to tell you: just as death and gravity and war tend to win out in the end, so too is poop an inexorable force, and after my second bite of Roquefort, with my stomach kicking around like a sixty-pound Marlin on ten-pound test, I finally gave in."

Perhaps one of the most poignant paragraphs ever to grace this web site. Bravo!

doniker's picture
j 1000+ points

Well look at it this way; there was most likely no way you could have managed any sexual activity with that "monster" in you (if that's what you were aiming for)...so you didn't really miss anything.

Dan's picture
m 1+ points - Newb

This is the poop report i want to write... mastercrapper... i am in awe

boelkstoff's picture

True literary genius! I wish you could write entire books of this stuff -- I could spend hours reading it!

michael vittitow's picture

it hurt and was to long

kyle crap freind of michael vittitow's picture

me and michael vittitow had a pooping contest and i won with a twelve foot long terd

Ass Plegm's picture

Simply beautiful. You are a true literary genius. It's an honor to be considered a fellow poopreport amounst the likes of yourself.

In it's category, this is one of the best reports yet.

the fantom's picture

poetry.

pure poop poetry.

i almost crapped myself laughing so hard.

wait... i think... no, i didn't.

my friends say i'm odd because i like stories about poop.

but it could be worse, i could like stories about.. say, eating poop.

???'s picture

you are quite a writer! maybe you could become an author as well as a chef! ingenious!

Scat Woman's picture

I agree with Boelkstoff, I wish you would write a book or a collection of short stories! I was enthralled....by the time I reached the paragraph that starts with "My initial fart hissed and spat like a propane tank with a broken valve ..." I was laughing so hard I was not able to continue reading for several moments, and every few more words I read, another paroxysm of laughter took hold of me....seriously, forget cooking, take writing up as a career, you are so talented!

My friends too think I'm weird to find stories about poop so entertaining, maybe it's because I'm a woman and it's considered 'unladylike'.

This story felt like an early Christmas present...and it's only the beginning of a week of treats...

A Dude's picture
m 1+ points - Newb

A classic!

Write a screen play and cast some Hollywood heavy hitters!

peace's picture

or heavy shitters!

G Ras's picture
l 100+ points

Awesome!!! "I took a bite of Roquefort -- it should have been called "Beaufort,"" That's great. You are truly an artist---G Ras

Perhaps I am an asshole and so much time has pass you probably won't even read this .... but in my defense.... this site is all about funny stuff that happens to us about shit in the course of everyday living.... and may I say in my story I too got shit

canfan's picture

if you can accomplish THIS whilst writing about dung, imagine if you wrote erotica... i mean... DO you write erotica?

Jaybowel's picture
m 1+ points - Newb

Wha..ergeba...whodafa...

* speechless with admiration *

The_Shitman's picture

N...Fla....Buuufa...laa......

*following suit with jaybowel*

Che's picture

"Pulse pounding in my ears, I ran the hot water, trying to float my stink skyward on wings of steam. "

that's beautiful, man.

DiamondMom's picture

I was touched with the story! I was left wondering how did your evening ended with her, you just got to bed and that's it? How was the following morning?

Mastercrapper's picture
PoopReport of the Year Awardl 100+ pointsm 1+ points - Newb

Thanks for the praise, crap compatriots. No, canfan, I don't write erotica -- I used to try back in college but I would get too turned on, lose my "zest" and never finish the stories. And yes, the night ended rather abruptly, just like that. I awoke to a note wishing me luck and instructions to leave the key with the doorman on my way out. As for the interview? The janitorial staff at World Financial Center are probably still talking about what they found in the basin of one of the lobby men's room toilets the following morning.

Dr James's picture

Could have been worse. You could have ended up bedding the girl and letting it all out in the middle of it. Now that would make a good story!

Turdcutter's picture
m 1+ points - Newb

I must say mastercrapper you have certainly raised the bar with this one. Ive noticed an increase of quality in the past few stories. Written with such love and eloquence that they verge on poetic. Never have I been so enthralled with a story about the stank brown trout. Bravo my friend, bravo.

Duff Yazzie's picture

I'm just glad that she didn't give you a lot of shit about your ordeal, what a pal!

tirade's picture

"And then the cheese happened."

One of the funniest sentences Ive ever read on PR. Bravo, Mastercrapper!

Chuck's picture

If there isn't a "Poo"litzer Prize, there is a nominee for the award now. In the heavens above, Shakespeare, Hemingway and all the literary giants smile on this well structure prose.

Cacablanca's picture

This was the funniest story I've read on here so far! Excellent work.

AssmasterFlash's picture

great story,mastercrapper.the NYC setting left me wondering one thing---do you suppose there's a tale out yonder re.the not-so-doody past of Sept.11th?for instance,someone who was on their way to work at the WTC that morning,had to stop off and punch a grumpy,and thus averted death because of nature's call.just wondering.

Clyde's picture
m 1+ points - Newb

On a day when I was more pretentious, I dared call you "brother." Mastercrapper you are my master; my hero; my idol. As soon as I am able to stand again I shall kneel before you. You have done it again.

Jimbo's picture
m 1+ points - Newb

All hail the Mastercrapper!! Worthy of a Pulitzer, or should I say "Poolitzer".

WinnebagoPooper's picture

Best shittin story I've ever read. It had me on the edge of my seat the whole time....or was it the dozen burritos I just washed down with a quart and a half of gin?

Butch Patrick's picture

Way too long. There was probably some good stuff in there - but a 2300 word essay on poop? Not even the PoopReport should allow such verbosity.

Danny's picture
m 1+ points - Newb

We should make a poo-litzer prize. A prize for the best story of all time. It'd be hard to pick, though.

ballsack's picture

Some people think that they can live forever if they take the right vitamins and get enough exercise. Some people believe that they can build aircraft that will counter the force of gravity, if only they find the right technologies. Some people are convinced that peace and harmony will wash over Planet Earth if they simply join hands and sing and pray.

Classic. Your a Genius. Your story was shit. I loved it.

the crapper's picture

Hey mastercrapper, i understand you were a cook. You ever cook a turd? HA!

Mastercrapper's picture
PoopReport of the Year Awardl 100+ pointsm 1+ points - Newb

nope.

Chris Horn's picture

Simply unforgettable. HA HA. Loved the story.

Skid Marky Mark's picture

One of the best things about the story was that you resisted the urge to make a lame "cutting the cheese" joke when you taked about Gigi cutting the cheese. A lesser writer would have gone for the obvious. Nice job.

poop-o-matic's picture

MC, The best compliment I can give you is the fact that I'm still sitting here crying with laughter 15 minutes after I've read your story.

wonderpance's picture
Comment Quality Moderatork 500+ points

this story was pretty long, but it's so well written you just breeze right through it. i even pretty much knew what was coming, but i kept reading it anyway, hoping it wouldn't end up the way i expected. but i should've known better than to hope a "classy" broad like that would be able to ignore the pooping, or even have a sense of humor about it. but at least she was still polite and didn't make you leave or something.

i love poop.

Baron von Pooptoven's picture

Oh
my
God.

This is by far one of the best reports I have ever read. It puts my silly report to shame.

Bravo. Excellent.

Clear Poop's picture

Definately a classic. One of the best I've read and all that. But Gigi sounded like a stuck up little snob! Geez! Everyone poops now and then!

SamDamnit's picture
Comment Quality Moderatorj 1000+ points

A great story that was well written. For some reason, I had a sense that I had read it before. Has this one been submitted on a prior occasion?

SamDamnit!
The Emir of Crapistan

Active Poocano's picture

What can I say that hasn't already been said? This story is perfection; a truly entertaining read.

DungDaddy's picture
Comment Quality Moderatorj 1000+ points

This is truly a classic. I wished it would never end. But y'now, Master-C, the pipe from your stomach to your ring-piece is real long, it takes many, MANY hours for pork, even pork propelled by beer to wend its way through your twisting gut. It wasn't what you ate that evening that caused your distress. Perhaps the ribs and beer and potato pushed down on your pipes and spurred yesterday's stuff to come hurrying out.

The Man with the Golden Buns's picture

"Avian cheekbones"?

Logjam's picture
Comment Quality Moderatori 2000+ points

It doesn't get better than this. We can only hope that, one day, Mastercrapper's ship will steam back into Poop Port, its cargo hold full of new adventures. Till then, we'll be pacing up on the widow's walk.

Logjam

Marcos's picture

Whats up with all these anal blasts from the past?

Why do I have to go to the bathroom immediatly after drinking Colombian Coffe?

Why does everyone get the best rare item drops in WoW while Im AFK in the crapper?

Where am I?

Marcos's picture

"We sat on stools at the kitchen island. "

haha ouch!

the foff man's picture

Brilliamt story. Much better than most of the garbage that gets posted around here. More diarrhea stories, please!

C Everett Poop's picture

Epic tale Mastercrapper. You are wasting your time cooking. You should be writing.

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