My wife and I planned a weeklong trip to Nags Head, NC, to go camping on the beach. We packed the car with necessities like a tent, cooking gear, and a cooler of food. We have camped like this before, but never on the beach for a week, without the cool shade of trees. One thing I didn't know was that in these conditions, a cooler is almost useless, unless you put ice in it twice a day. Realizing this two days into the trip, I decided it would be best to eat what we could out of the cooler before it went bad. The cooler contained mostly soda pop and beer, but there was also a pack of hot-dogs and four homemade hamburgers wrapped in tinfoil. I drained the water out of the cooler and grabbed the floating meat.
It was a long day at the beach, and I was really hungry and in a rush to eat something, so we cooked up the food that night. As I unwrapped the hamburgers I noticed they were a funny color, but they were still frozen inside. Not worrying too much about salmonella, I figured I'd burn off any meat issues on the open fire.
I ate a lot and ate it quickly. While ramming stuff down my throat I noticed that the one hamburger I ate was a bit red on the inside; but I nevertheless chowed it down without much thought. About twenty minutes later, while enjoying a brownie, my stomach started to ratchet back and forth uncontrollably, like a car with its front wheel letting loose. I felt as if I was going expel from every orifice in my body and even create a few new ones.
Like a deer in the road panicked by a car's high beams, my tunnel vision kicked in as I peered across the campground to the bathrooms. I bee-lined it to the bathrooms and approached the first stall I came to. I started to open the door; as I got it about three-quarters of the way open, what I thought was going to be a hiccup became my ruination. I remember a faint brockrook sound, and out came an explosion of dinner spewings that spread like a shotgun blast, coating the walls and toilet in a motif with more colors then the master swatch in a paint factory. I was actually somewhat scared and startled by the volume and speed at which it traveled. For a moment I felt relieved that the pain was dissipating, and I stopped in awe of the sheer volume of hurl that covered the surrounding area. I checked my shirt, pants and shoes for consequential damages with much bewilderment -- there was none!
I turned to the sinks to wash my mouth when the hell of all ages fired up my bowels. I should have looked in the mirror to see my expression, but I had no time to ponder or think. I did an immediate 180 and flew back into the stall, almost tripping in anticipation of the mud flood that was trying to break through the dam. Looking down, all I could see was barf on the seat, barf in the toilet, barf on the floor, barf on the walls. With the cool wit of a fireman in a burning building with three kids under his arms, I kicked the seat up and simultaneously -- in a move worthy of a Matrix sequel -- spun around while lowering my shorts and came in for a near-perfect landing on the two-inch-wide clean area on the porcelain receptor.
Within seconds, everything I had eaten for the last few days raced through my bowels to exit like a prison announcing a permanent furlough. Leaving nothing for chance, I squeezed and tightened my innards to clear any inklings of whatever started this devastation upon my soul. Feeling cleaned out and hallow, I wiped the fissure of feces and stood up.
My mind flashed pictures of that hamburger. Was it undercooked? Was it housing some bacteria? Was it even a hamburger? Whatever the case, I was feeling much better, so I turned around and paused to look at the mess.
I couldn't comprehend the site with 100% belief without stepping back a little further. Viewing the stall from about three feet outside the door many thoughts raced through my mind. What the hell happened here? Where did all this stuff come from? Are there any necessary organs that accidentally came out? Who's the poor slob who has to clean this place up? And the most the overriding question burdening me: whom can I show this to?
I don't consciously include my wife in all my poop stories, but it seems that in the she always gets involved somehow. I went back to the campsite and convinced her to come and take a looksie at the mess I made. She knows from past trips that part of touring the country included seeing historical places and sites of great interest. To me at least, this was pretty interesting!
-- Crap4All
