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 Don't Push ItPosted 05.29.2003 by Honey Monster (51)
One of my worst poop-related episodes happened to me about four years ago. Me and some friends decided to head out on a debauched night of lardy food, beer and rock and roll. We started off on a road lined wall-to-wall with premises selling all manner of alcohol, and after fours hours of non-stop drinking, we were completely hammered.
My near-empty stomach, deprived of food since breakfast, gurgled loudly. This was a signal that my poor abused body required solids to soak up some of the booze. With that in mind, my friends and I hunted around for somewhere that would sell us some. After nearly forty minutes aimlessly wondering around town, we ventured down a small back alley, which led onto a small street with a small pub blaring out some Motorhead. And there outside, just as we were giving up hope, was a burger van. Thank you, God! We quickly ordered, ate, and headed into the pub, where we found a table in a small corner. The pub was actually bigger once you got inside. It was inhabited by some very shady characters -- a strange mixture of leather-clad bikers and crusty hippies. Being fairly relaxed at this point, I bought a pint of Guinness and drank it with haste. Seeing as I had finished my drink before everyone else, I decided to head to the toilets and relieve my bloated bladder. Although the bathroom was thankfully empty, I still headed towards the lone stall. Now, I know there are Shameless Shitters. I am not one. I am also not a Shameless Pisser. If anyone enters the room when I'm trying to go, I clam up and just can't perform. Just as I was about to enter the stall, a rather chubby hippie came in and started draining his lizard. Relieved at my lucky escape, I went in. The first thing to hit me was the stink. As I wiped the tears from my eyes I gazed down at the toilet. Well, "toilet" is a loose term for what confronted me. It was more of a large brown mess of overflowing excrement; a breeding ground for a harem of flies who must have thought they had died and gone to heaven. I had no choice but to use the dreaded standing urinals. I waddled up and tried to squeeze into the only space between the wall and the fat hippie. I unzipped, arranged myself for the flow, and tried to relax. Nothing happened. Moments passed, and my own inability to go was heightened by the fact the hippie was able to go... and go... and go... At this point I was getting slightly embarrassed, so I tried to strain in an attempt to force my bladder to release the golden liquid. I glanced at the hippie, who was staring at me. I could only muster a weak smile and shrug my shoulders in semi-apology. Just as I thought it couldn't get any worse, it did. Another man entered the room and was patiently waiting for an available space at the urinal. I was desperate to go now so I strained with all my might. All that happened was a loud sharp fart that echoed around the small bathroom. Embarrassment was all I could feel. That, and a healthy dose of shame. I knew what these men were thinking -- but I wasn't going to be beaten by this horrible affliction. I gave one last squeeze and clenched my gut. What happened next is something I never ever want to go through again. My eyes were shut as I squeezed, but the release of pressure did not come from my bladder as I hoped. Before the message reached my brain, I realized something was terribly wrong. I can only assume that all the alcohol had lubed my guts and that the grease from the burger had gently slipped all the way down my intestines, helped along by the heavy pint of Guinness consumed only moments earlier. My first thoughts were that I had somehow wet myself as I felt a small trickle flowing down my leg. But I looked down and was surprised to see that I was still unable to go. I shuffled from one foot the other, and this is the point at which I noticed a heaviness in the back of my pants. And then it dawned on me... I hurriedly put away my useless thinking instrument and zipped up. "Sorry guys," I announced, "looks like I need to take a dump." Why did I say that? I have no idea. I just felt the need to justify my actions. With a walk John Wayne would have been proud of, I shuffled into the disgusting toilet cubicle. Once inside, I dropped my pants, flicked the sticky mess onto the already heaving pile of poop, and cleaned myself up as best I could. Then, with an air of confidence, I strode out of the toilet, past the crowds of hippies and bikers, past my friends, and straight out the door. My buttocks squelched all the way home. Post new comment
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