It was a lazy Saturday, with nothing doing but the goofing off. The night before had involved large amounts of beer and margaritas at the local Mexican restaurant. For some unknown reason, I didn't get the Mad Mexican Shits afterwards. This is totally out of character for me.

I started Saturday with an egg- and sausage-loaded breakfast with my then-fiancé. After she left for work, her Dad Butch called and said he wanted me to ride with him to look at some property on the river. I decided to eat lunch in the car on the way.

Now, anyone that knows anything about fine cuisine will tell you that gas stations are the best place for burritos and spicy chicken nuggets on the planet. This day I had an abundance of both. I know what you are saying: this is a sure-fire recipe for diarrheal disaster, especially considering what else I had in my system. I knew that, and I reminded myself of the impending doom as I placed my order, but I didn't let it stop me.

Experienced poopers know the key to a successful poop life is to stay close to familiar ground, so that you're always near a 'poop-friendly' zone when it's time to drop brown. On this day, that was the second rule I broke.

I had only been in the truck for few miles when the familiar gurgle hit me. "This is going to be interesting," I thought. But, with years of experience under my belt, I knew roughly how much time I had before it would hit. I also knew that if it came to it, I could blow some stew in the woods somewhere if I had to.

So we looked at the property, knocked around for a few minutes, and got ready to leave. By this time my stomach was churning like an old washer full of mud. I mentioned to Butch that I had to take a crapperoo and we needed to be getting back soon. I don't think he quite understood the gravity of the situation, but he chuckled and we left.

A few minutes later Butch tells me we are going to his friend's house to check on his houseboat. I reminded Butch of the crapperoo, and he assured me there was a bathroom I could use there.

Upon arriving, my internal muscles were working overtime. I think I could have turned coal to diamond with the pressure I was exerting trying to control the flow. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead, I felt dizzy; the real countdown began.

The old house trailer was parked on a riverbank, surrounded by old appliances and beer cans. A hand painted sign welcomed us to 'Boot's Fishcamp'. We made our way down to the water where the boat was and found four or five guys sitting around drinking at the dock. Butch introduced me to Boot, and we toured the boat. Needless to say, I wasn't interested. By this time the shit pains started affecting my speech patterns, and my voice changed pitch. I grabbed Butch by the shoulder and said, "Look man, I need to go NOW." He started laughing, and told me Boot didn't let anyone in his place for any reason. "Where do people go out here, then?" I asked.

Boot had converted a storage shed into a makeshift shitter by adding a toilet to the small, enclosed area. No sink, no mirror; just a toilet. At this point, I didn't care. Butch informed everyone of my situation, to which they all had a good laugh and made sport of my advanced condition. As I made my way back up the hill, Boot assured me he had just 'fixed' the plumbing.

But he hadn't bothered to fix anything else. The bulb was burned out, so there was no light in there. The toilet was not bolted down properly, and rocked. There was no paper. And it was August, so the heat in there was unbearable. As I hit the door, my ass told me the fight was over -- no matter where I was, I was about to launch. I flicked the light switch and nothing happened. I shut the door and placed my ass on the seat in the dark.

To say I took a shit is like saying Magellan took a boat ride. My ass hurled a fluidic mass of nastiness that hit the water at breakneck speed. Yes, there was an awful backsplash. I shifted as the first wave of the wetjet hit me and shot a muddy rooster tail up the toilet tank. This was a truly unbelievable shit. The funk exited my body with such force my ass gasped for air between hurls. I moaned uncontrollably.

Then it was over. I felt around the walls, but couldn't find any toilet paper to begin the wipe job. I sat there in the dark, shaking, dripping and sweating, listening to the residue dripping, and flushed.

The bowl was half-filled already. The water that poured in was supposed to suck the sludge down. Since it was pitch black in there and I needed to do a major wipe job, I hadn't moved. I was wondering what was happening with the water when I felt it touch my ass. I jumped up as it started pouring out under the seat. I tried to run, but my shorts and underwear worked as leg shackles, so I made baby steps towards the door as the water chased me.

Opening the door to let the light in, I turned to see what damage I had wrought. It looked like an explosion of Yoo-Hoo and sausage in there. On top of that, add a gallon of egg drop soup and a smell from the beyond. Water covered the floor around the toilet, full of a swirling brown mass. I pulled off my underwear and cleaned myself with it. Then I wiped part of the rooster tail and threw the underwear into the toilet. I realized that this was a bad thing; I needed to get gone before Boot discovered it.

I headed down the hill to the dock. Butch was having a beer with the guys. One of them asked me if everything came out OK, and they all laughed. I told Butch we needed to go because I had things to do before it got dark. As we walked up the hill to the truck, I told him what had happened, and how we needed to get out before anyone found it. He started laughing and yelled back down the hill, "Boot, you ain't worth a shit as a plumber!" At that, Boot headed to the storage shed. As we started backing up to leave, we heard him screaming cuss words at me.

-- Mad Shittah