Not long ago, shortly after my 14th birthday, I was coming home from school on the bus and I could feel short stabbing pains in my bowels. As I was slowly walking the fifty meters from the bus stop to my house over rocky, grassy ground, I heard the exited yipping from my huge dog -- which she always does to show she knows I'm home. She came bounding out when I was nearly at the gate and jumped up on me. I stepped back and her front paws landed square in my stomach.

The pain was extreme -- and now I had to get up to the house as soon as I could. I staggered up the steps to the front door and desperately tried to find the house key. I remembered with a sinking feeling that my mum had given that key to a friend, and she and my little brother were still in town. So I had to break into my own house.

It was then the first convulsion came. My whole body twisted as I tried to hold on to this huge poo threatening to pop its head out and say hello. I tried to get in through the window, but it was locked. But I knew there was another window that would let me through. I staggered around to the other veranda and climbed the steps. As I removed the gauze from the window I was planning on climbing, I contemplated how the hell I was going to get through such a small window with such a big poo knocking at the door. I had to try. Getting through the window involved lifting my leg rather high -- very high for someone in my situation -- up to the railing, then stretching across to the window.

I raised my leg up and got a good foothold on the railing. I was just about to jump to get my other foot up when I felt my second convulsion. "Not now!" I pleaded with myself. "Not now." The convulsion quieted down, and my other leg was just off the ground when about two inches of poo sprouted out of my bottom.

This was bad. I couldn't move, otherwise it could get squidgy. So I carefully levered my leg off the rail, keeping in the same position, and slowly straightened. This, I believe, is the worst part of turtle-necking -- you can't clench to stop the rest of the poo from getting out because you will sever the bond between it and the bit already sticking out, and that bit will end up in your pants.

I had only one option left: poo outside. This option wasn't as bad as I thought -- only ten years before I used to poo outside regularly. How hard could it be to go back?

I looked around for a suitable spot, and decided I couldn't do it in the yard. My mum studied animals and their poo for a long time, and she could pick human from dog (I realize now that there is a lot of difference, and most people can tell the difference). So where was I to go? I could go in someone's mailbox. But as tempting as that was, I just couldn't, mainly because I didn't know whose mailbox was whose -- I could have unintentionally crapped in a friends.

So what else was there? My tortured mind ran over all the options and settled on one: the road. I waddled down to the road, locked in a battle of wills between me and the poo. Really, the more I thought about it, the more the road sounded like a good option. My evil neighbors might even run it over and splatter their car.

Luckily I live a way out of town, so nobody was watching as I sat down and strained. The poo itself was pretty easy to get out except when I pushed to get the last bit -- the angle I was on, and the straining of certain muscles, caused me to accidentally piss my pants.

When I was done I hobbled over to a clump of grass and made use of nature's paper. That done, I ran and hid in some grass on the other side of the road to watch people run it down. I thought about when my mum was coming back. Mum likes to check out things on the road to see if they are dead or not... Wait a minute. My turd looks kind of like a snake...

Panic raced through my mind -- what if mum stops to see if my crap is still alive? I didn't want to touch the thing, so I sat and waited. Soon my dog came along sniffing, and walked up to the road. First I thought she was going to eat my poo because of a similar incident when I was younger, but it turned out she simply wanted to roll in it. She rolled that shit all up her side; before I could stop her she grew even more brown that usual.

Not long after that, mum arrived. But she didn't stop to look at the poo because my dog had rolled it flat. Later that night I told mum that the dog had rolled in her own poo. The perfect crime.

-- Luckyjay