My husband is my best friend. And as all down-to-earth women know, there are some forms of familiarity that at first we endure, and then forget about all together. My husband and I have to share the bathroom at times, and we hear poop stories when we let our walls down enough to realize that, after all, it's just poop. It's like masturbation. Everyone does it, and those who say they don't are lying. So between the two of us, this is our best story.
In the summer or 1983 or so, my husband went with his best friends and his older brother to yet another concert in Cleveland. There was always a concert, whether it be at the Star Theatre or the Cleveland Coliseum; and that meant there was always a coveted concert t-shirt to accompany the ticket price.
Well, hubby, like myself, did a fair share of recreational drugs back then -- one of the favorites being good LSD. If LSD is old, though, it can break down to strychnine, a compound that is found in rat poison. Let's just say this: it gives you the major runs. We are talking an entire day of liquid reason for the 10-yard sprint.
On this particular evening, my husband had partaken in some acid that must have been on the expiration date, for he found himself in the sprint of his life after the concert. It probably didn't help that he had drank well over a 12-pack during the course of the evening, or that he had made the cardinal mistake of delving in the culinary Hell of the Bell for a large taco salad, among other things. The combination of the aforementioned began its downward descent with a purpose on the ride from Cleveland to Howland, where his porcelain destination loomed just far enough in the distance as to seem unreachable before the dogs of Hell were unleashed.
As his friends dropped him off two streets down from his house, he took off at a full run -- which was a sight, I am sure, because the previous year he was the fastest 100-yard man in the district. So there he was, as he explained to me, running uphill at full speed, butt cheeks clenched with the ferocity of a pit bull's jaws set into a burglar's leg, when he realized that on this fateful night the destination would always loom just out of reach.
Had hubby not performed the same shirt-switching ritual he usually did when going to a concert -- wearing an old one, and dumping it when he bought the new one so he could wear it and not lose it -- he would have been able to escape using twenty dollar toilet paper. But about one hundred yards from the house, at around 3 AM, my husband could stand no more. He dropped trou as quickly as only a tweaked-out 18-year-old faced with the possibility of soiling his favorite Levi's (how do we explain this to mom?) could, and let loose with an explosion of hookah-laced diarrhea into a ditch at the foot of his neighbor's yard. He wavered there, attempting to squeeze out the rest, but there was no hurrying what had a mind of its own.
After a thankfully-witnessless anal void, he was faced with the job of getting rid of the aftermath on his speedy cheeks. The only choice he had was to take off his new concert t-shirt and defile it.
After he wiped himself, he left the shirt in the ditch.
To this day, I still giggle silly when I think of him at 3 AM, thick blond hair flying, butt clenched, fists pumping with the effortless fluidity of a natural athlete, in a fruitless attempt to preserve the honor of a shirt.
I love this man.
-- Daphne
