Like most normal people, I try to crap regularly. Whenever I feel that twinge in my buttocks that tells me to hurry up and get to the boarding gate I give all clearances for take-off, usually followed by a splashdown. But when I don't poop regularly, that's something different altogether. Instead of a nice small Cessna leaving the runway I have to deal with a fully loaded Jumbo Jet.
Often these incidents happen once a month, typically on a Friday night after oil-filled fish and chips. Mix it down with a bit of cordial, and you have a recipe for disaster.
Recently -- well, not recently, for most of my life actually -- my parents have been complaining about my "orifice odors". Sometimes they literally wear masks when coming near me. To maintain my relationship with them, I have taken their advice and started to use our garage toilet, a small cold room at the bottom of the house that used to be an ensuite for the downstairs spa. In the summer, it's fine. In the winter, sitting there with your daks down on freezing tiles isn't my idea of a good time. Especially with a BowelLog (Balrog) lurking inside my own version of Khazad-Dum.
This Friday night I felt the urge, and I felt it badly. I grabbed a magazine, and rushed downstairs into the cold little hole in the wall. I tore off my pants and sat down. After a little pushing, and a lot more than a little pain, my turd emerged. Instant relief.
But it was short lived. Monster turds like this involve constant pushing, stomach cramps, desires to vomit (which I did once), and all round hell. When the tribulation was finally over I reached for the TP. Now here's where I hit a little problem.
There was no TP.
This was a tight spot. There was none in the cupboard, nor behind the porcelain. Should I dare yell for help and risk utter embarrassment -- an event that would no doubt be recalled several times at my 21st? Or should I try another alternative?
Let me tell you now that there was a perfectly good sink and towel in that little room, and I was seriously considering using them. But after much thought, I reached my answer. I was going to have to use my hand.
So I carefully lifted myself off of the seat and waddled to the sink, careful to not leave marks on the floor. I wet my hand and began the job. It was pretty gross, including solid chunks still attached to my hand. I had to wash my butt at least five times before I was done.
I cleaned my hand as best I could afterwards, and then dried it and my rear (gently, mind you) on the towel. To my horror, it left a mark. So I spent the next ten minutes trying to clean the mark out of the towel.
When I was satisfied, I raced upstairs to the main toilet and finished the job properly. The end result was a clean bum, a clean pair of undies, and an apparently clean, but still odorous, hand. To this day only one other soul knows, and I have forced him to swear never to repeat it. I only tell it to you because I may remain anonymous on this site. I'm not a Shameful Shitter, but I do not want to be associated with this event.
And what did I learn?
Always check for TP.
-- Thunderturds Are Go!