A Woman's First Shart
The professor for my nutrition class in college instructed us to go for two feet worth of floaters every day. I always check to make sure I've averaged out over the day, and I've always gone to bed secure in the knowledge that my two feet's worth really floated. Good enough.
Within the past three months I have altered my diet so that now I eat mostly vegetarian fare. Not strict -- the occasional roasted chicken or broiled fish get thrown in -- but my diet has been fairly clean over the last couple of months. I noticed that my floaters have sort of morphed into rabbit pellets, but I am still pretty regular, so I figured all was well in the land down under. But last night I ventured beyond my rabbit fodder and ate Chinese. Not just steamed rice and veggies, either. A friend had ordered some sesame chicken -- breaded, deep-fried, unidentifiable parts of the oldest chicken in the roost, drowned in sauce and greasier than a baby pig at a state fair during the 4-H competitions.
The first bite was glorious. The second slid down uneasily after it, and the third hit the first two with a sickening thud somewhere in my stomach. That was all I could take. Right then and there I vowed to never eat Chinese from the mall's food court ever, ever again.
As I crawled into bed, my stomach began literally howling at me in protest. I felt like Ripley in Alien; I expected some thing to emerge from my midsection, ripping my innards to shreds in the process. No such luck, though. All day today my stomach rumbled and howled, setting off several false alarms as I ran panicked to the loo, disrobed, but nothing happened -- until that fateful moment, as my children innocently frolicked near the pond, as the sinking sun illuminated my front yard...
I felt the urge to fart as I never have before; and when I let loose, it was not air that emerged. I finally knew what it meant to shart. Horrified, I squeezed my cheeks and ran into the bathroom to confirm my worst fears. There was something liquidy and brown, with an ungodly stench, sitting in my lace panties. I had always heard about skid marks, but here I was, branded with the mark of shame, a thirty-year-old loser who can't even make it to the little girl's room to 'powder her nose.' Contractions that could only rival childbirth gripped my stomach and I grunted and squeezed like never in my life -- even, again, during childbirth. Somewhere in the background, the Mormon Tabernacle Choir was singing the Hallelujuah chorus as each squeeze produced the most satisfying release known to man.
I wiped, and I wiped, and it just kept coming. I wiped and I wiped some more, and then stood to make sure I had gotten it all, and then five minutes later realized that the sloppy soup was still drizzling out of me.
Finally finished the grand dame of all craps, I looked down and stared. Somehow it never occurred to me in the process that I had pooped a really, really lot. My hasty pudding had piled high enough to pass the water mark! Being the inquisitive soul that I am, I leaned way over and tried to estimate how high. I figure that my pyramid of poop cleared the water line by a good two inches. Impressive! This might be an everyday achievement for the big boys, but I had filled the bowl and topped her off for the first time in my life.
These were no ordinary little rabbit turds, either. This was one solid, steaming, pulsating mass of intestinal sludge, producing a scent so heinous the potty god himself was bowing to my offering.
And do you know what? I felt empowered like I never have before! This is where we girls level the playing field! You guys can stand and deliver for #1, but you have to drop them and squat like the rest of us when it comes to the better half.
Please do not inundate me with requests for my panties. I'm getting them bronzed.
-- Juli Pooli