Sunday was the hottest day of the year, with the mercury topping out at ninety-seven degrees. The wife, the kids, and I went to some friends' house to take advantage of their hospitality and their swimming pool. We swam for a while, and then we ate. After fried chicken, potato salad, chips, and hot dogs, we finished it all off with a huge plate of watermelon. I worried a bit about the amount of melon I ate -- such fiber tends to make things a bit explosive.

On the way home I was feeling hungry again, so I swung through town where the local festival was in full swing. My intention was to pick up a couple of pieces of nasty pizza for the kids (who don't know any better) and get myself a few pork chops on a stick. This being PoopReport, not PorkReport, I won't go into much detail as to the beauty of this wonderful cuisine except to say that they're delicious and worth every penny of the five dollar price tag. I had my wife pull up to the edge of the carnival and drop me and the kids off.

I found the pork chop stand. Unfortunately they were out of chops and predicting a twenty-minute wait. Having just been reamed a second asshole by the wife a couple weeks ago for waiting in line over an hour for a slab of ribs, I figured I could do without a third anal orifice, so I sent the kids to get their pizza and settled for second best -- a pulled pork sandwich and a Cajun sausage. I have no idea what the real name of this sausage is, but it's the equivalent of a giant, spicy Slim Jim; not really Cajun, but quite tasty, with just a bit of a kick. We took our food and got home in time to watch the fireworks. Eight beers and two sandwiches later, I was ready for bed.

Monday morning. My stomach woke me with a start. It was having trouble with something, and it seemed to be gearing up for a revolt. I figured it was a good time to jettison the offending chow before it reached the panic level.

What came out turned out to be one of the most pleasant poops of my life. A twelve-inch turd the consistency of soft-serve ice cream slid effortlessly from betwixt my cheeks -- no grunting, no pushing, and contrary to what my stomach was saying, no explosion. A peek in the toilet also revealed something startling: no watermelon. No, this was a light tan monster, coiled up in the bowl like a sleeping butt snake. As I flushed, my stomach growled once again, but nothing seemed to be moving. I showered and went to work.

Work was unpleasant. Sometime over the weekend the air conditioning had failed. The temperature in my office was in the low nineties, and the humidity made it all the more unbearable. In less than fifteen minutes I was a sweaty mess. Even more unpleasant than the heat, though, was the pressure now building up behind my sphincter. The stomach had passed the baton on to the intestines, and they were now expressing their displeasure.

I made my way to the can. Once inside the stall, it took some effort to get the pants down. My jeans were damp and my underwear was actually wet with ass sweat. As I sat on the toilet, I couldn't help but notice how warm the seat felt. I'm always a little disturbed to sit on a warm toilet seat because that generally means it was in use only a few minutes before. I know it's not rational, but there's just something icky about it. It was still very early and I knew that no one had yet used the commode; the warm seat was a result of the ninety-five-degree bathroom temperature. But still.

By the time I got my buns firmly planted on the seat, my intestines were really making their anger known. Gurgling and churning, it felt like they were wrapping around themselves in their attempt to squirt out whatever was causing their discomfort. I relaxed the bunghole just a little, and all hell broke loose.

With an audible hiss, some sort of black foam erupted in volcanic fashion. The stream took a full ten seconds to end; but before I had time to relax and wait for the next wave, I was nearly overcome by the most intense, most spicy poo smell I've ever encountered. My innards had taken that Cajun sausage, pulled pork, and beer, and, with the help of Mr. Watermelon, had made the vilest foam the world has ever seen. Depositing said froth into what was probably hundred-degree toilet water made an already volatile mess that much worse. My eyes watered, and I grew short of breath -- I was suffocating in my own dookie stench.

I don't normally do a courtesy flush if I'm perched on an industrial-strength work toilet, as too much of what's in the toilet is blown out of it by the violent, churning water. This would require an exception; and it wasn't so much a courtesy flush as it was a mercy flush. Mercy for my burnt olfactory passages, mercy for my red eyes and scorched lungs, mercy for any poor bastard unlucky enough to choose that moment to take a leak.

The flush helped, but the muggy bathroom air had already been polluted. My eyes continued to water through waves two and three, although each one was quickly dispatched by additional flushes. No one had the misfortune of entering the bathroom throughout my little ordeal, although in a twisted way I wish someone had. There's a certain amount of pride to be taken in achieving something out of the ordinary -- even if that something is a smell so horrible that it peels the paint off the bathroom walls.

-- Splaterbuns