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 The Miami Mound MachinePosted 03.25.2005 by John P. (10)
Several years ago I was a newlywed with many ambitions of impressing my new spouse. I had not yet progressed to the point in our relationship where it was permissible to fart in the presence of my new queen. Bodily functions, if having to do with the ever-unpredictable digestive tract, were expressly forbidden.
We had driven the three-and-a-half hours from our house in Key West and had gone shopping in Miami, where we stopped for a bite to eat at a Pizza Hut. Throwing all caution to the wind, I cleverly ordered a fine meatball sub with hot peppers and extra sauce. I ate that baby like a starving maniac and it went down with all the gusto of packing a cannon for later use. We had shopped until nightfall and by the time we started back to Key West, it was quite late and everything that would house a porcelain throne was either closed or behind the walls of someone's home. But I didn't have anything to fear because I was alive at twenty-five and nothing could harm me or get in the way of showing my queen how manly I could be. Well... approximately an hour into our return trip, I began to feel the warning shots of a battle brewing within my intestinal walls. I chuckled a bit, thinking that there were only two-and-a-half more hours of travel across the many islands of the Florida Keys and that I could make it at that point. But soon I began timing the cramps, as if I was expecting to give birth that evening. And after a bit even the occasional and quite skillful blow-by to reduce the internal pressure would not allow me to make enough room for the army of meatballs and hot peppers that were beginning to stir far within the depths of my ass-cannon. With about an hour and a half to go, it was obvious someone had lit the fuse of my intestinal nightmare, and that I wasn't going to make it home in time to discreetly empty my load of butt-mud. I began to sporadically laugh, like a madman waiting for a lobotomy. I couldn't believe I was actually going to spray my acid stench on the new cloth seats in my car. I was actually going to take an uncontrolled dump in front of my new spouse AND destroy my new car in the process. Sweat began to stream down my face and clear, runny snot flowed from my nose. Every ounce of concentration was aimed at keeping my butt-muzzle closed. I began shutting down all non-essential organs, diverting my last bit of energy to keeping the bomb doors closed. Alas, while approaching the Seven Mile Bridge with my hair standing straight up, covered in sweat, I frantically called out to my spouse. "There's a small dirt road on the right, just before the bridge -- TAKE IT!" "Why?" she asked. "Are you all right?" I responded with a gasping, panicked, "N-N-N-N-N-N-N-N-O-O-O-O-O-O- TTTTTAKE THE ROAD NOW!" She reluctantly -- yet quite gracefully -- started driving down the dirt road that circles under the bridge. "Stop!" I yelled, and poured myself through the open door. I couldn't get my pants off fast enough, and there wasn't time to move away from the car. With the salty night air rushing through my soaked hair, I spastically shoved my pants down below my knees and fired the long sought-after weapon of mass destruction. So much hot mud was flowing from this chili-maker that it was starting to pile up, so I attempted to crab-walk out of range of this pyramid of brown butt clay. After building the biggest pile I had ever seen outside of an elephant cage at the zoo, my underwear was sacrificed, used as makeshift toilet paper. After the launch and the clean-up, I carefully spread my underwear on top of the pile, climbed back into the car (which was about a foot from my disaster area), looked at my disgusted queen, and instructed her to backup to the highway. As we backed up the dirt road, the headlights lit up the pile like a shrine. And on top of the shrine was my underwear, which also bore my name. I wonder if the fishermen the next morning were as impressed with my artistic creation as I was... at least I signed my artwork. -- John P Post new comment
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