Foreword
Ever since I was a little boy, I've produced massive logs ("brown thangs") guaranteed to clog the plumbing of any toilet. Even in my earliest memories, my mom would use my tinker toys (the long purple ones) to break up my turds that clogged the household's plumbing.
Input
The problem only compounded from my pre-teens through my teenage years -- my logs increased in size as I developed my now-legendary appetite. At an elementary school picnic in fifth grade, I consumed 14 hot dogs in a single setting. At church, I ate 11 chocolate chip cookies. At my sister's wedding, I consumed 7 dinner entrees. Later on, in my teenage years and into my twenties, I would pig out at times -- in 1991, I consumed three massive beef burritos (each burrito took up a separate, full-size platter) while setting a food consumption record at Whiskey Creek in Frisco, Colorado. On day one of 1992's Fourth of July weekend, I consumed three massive T-bone steaks. The following day, I grilled up five one-pound hamburgers, consuming all five pounds of ground beef by myself (including buns, and loaded with toppings). In 1993, I consumed in one sitting two (2) fifty-ounce steak dinners with all the trimmings (salad, potato, and beans) at Denver's Trail Dust Steakhouse. In 1994, I consumed 9 prime rib steaks (including a salad that was over 8 inches tall) in a single sitting at The Denver Mint in Silverthorne, Colorado.
All this input is bound to produce massive output.
Ski Trip
Every year since the late 1970s, my parents and I ventured from our Missouri home for a skiing vacation in Colorado. We would always stay in Frisco, Colorado, just off I-70, to ski the slopes of Summit County. The eighteen-hour drive from Missouri (remember, this was back in the 80s, with the notorious fifty-five m.p.h. speed limits) would start with my Mom and Dad and me and our luggage packed in our small Datsun 280Z 2+2 hatchback. I would opt to get packed in lying down like the luggage itself -- although I could barely move, I could sleep most of trip. Mom would keep sandwiches (heavy on the bread and cheese) handy to allow us to keep driving straight through without lengthy food stops.
During the eighteen-hour interstate trek, I would invariably need to take a shit. But I would refuse to use the roadside bathrooms except to piss. I was always a Shameful Shitter, having gone K through 12 without ever shitting in public school restrooms (except once in eighth grade when the pain was too unbearable). I was always fearful of ass disease, so I never shat in public restrooms, always holding it in to opt for my parents' germ-free bathrooms.
Arriving at the hotel, I would be all bound up, ready to drop in Colorado a massive log that had been brewing since Missouri. After checking in, I would usually zip immediately into the crapper, much to the dismay and pleadings of my poor parents, who would beg me to use the one in the hotel lobby. Of course, this defeats the purpose of having a sterile, germ-free environment to crap in, and I would protest and manage to get their reluctant blessings to drop my log in the hotel room bathroom.
It was the early 80s, and I was 14 or 15. I was eating even more, and had consumed more sandwiches on our road trip than usual. Having just arrived at the hotel, I made the usual beeline to our room's bathroom once we checked in; the usual bickering took place, and I got my way to drop a massive log in the hotel room bathroom, as usual.
Dropping a Log
The dumping process was enormously painful. It felt like I was shitting a huge, dry, elongated tennis ball out of my ass -- my still deeply-lodged turd did not have a streamlined exit-point, but was instead blunt-ended and dense as lead. I had to hold my breath with all my energy to keep my spastic sphincter open to long enough pass this monster turd without my quivering ass slamming shut. Many times throughout the brown birthing process I nearly lost my concentration and my lung capacity, as crapping the monster out took my breath away from shit-hyperventilating. Finally, after thirty minutes and many snap-crackle-crackle-pops, I was able to extricate this brown beast that had kept me in intense pain for several hours. Standing up to inspect my new creation, I jumped back in horror as I was struck by the sheer size -- both length and girth -- of the ungodly monster that had been previously lodged up my ass. It was wide as a Campbell's Soup can and about one-and-a-half to two feet long.
I flushed and the black monster plugged up the hotel toilet. So I tried to play it off, finishing with the wiping, showering to remove the remaining shit residue from my ass, and calmly retiring to the safety of my bed in the hotel room. Resting from the ordeal, my tortured anus instantly returned to its normal shape. There was post-shit euphoria after having dropped a huge, massive, ungodly, 98.6-degree log of shit.
A short while later Mom went to use the bathroom, flushed, and, to her dismay, discovered the toilet plugged.
Furious, she sent me to the front desk to get assistance. I came back with the front desk clerk, a man wearing a very long necktie and carrying a plunger.
The Battle of the Log
For forty-five minutes, my Dad and the front desk clerk went to battle with my shit serpent; the toilet overflowed and water splashed all over the bathroom from their intense plunging as they took turns combating the toilet monster. Finally they unleashed the serpentine from its porcelain cave -- this only after the poor ol' bastard from the front desk had gotten his necktie in the brown water in the process of bending over and plunging. (He promptly took it off; presumably, it was ruined.) With groans of agony echoing in the bathroom, the three-headed Hydra finally reared its ugly head, and my Dad and the clerk wrestled and beheaded it into smaller monsters with the proverbial Excalibur plunger.
They re-entered the room, exhausted but triumphant, the only major casualty being the front desk clerk's tie. I was hiding during the time, mortified, completely embarrassed beyond belief. My dad approach me and told me that I really needed to give the front desk clerk a tip; however, I was too embarrassed to even consider coming out and showing my face.
Déjà Vu
The following year. The same situation. The same car. The same hotel. As luck would have it, the exact same scenario. After dropping another massive log, I went downstairs to get the assistance from the front desk and discovered -- I swear -- the same desk clerk.
He looked at me, and before I could speak a word, he groaned, "Oh No! Not YOU again!!"
The same battle ensued.
EpiLog
Fast forward from the 80s to 2003. I am now thirty-five years old, and living in Denver. My parents came to visit from Missouri to ski; they invited me up the mountains -- at the same hotel. Although it was not the same front desk clerk as had been there twenty years before, I did nonetheless drop a massive turd that again clogged the toilet, thus requiring yet another trip to the front desk to request a plunger.
Fortunately, this time my parents' anger was replaced by laughter as we all remembered many times like this before, in Colorado, on a ski trip, at the same hotel. Of course my Mom and Dad scolded me, as much as parents can get away with scolding their adult son; but they couldn't keep a straight face, and soon we were all bent over in laughter.
-- M. ASSive Log