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 Potty SlamPosted 04.27.2005 by Three Ply (112)
I'm a huge fan of professional wrestling. No, not the crap you see in the Olympics where two guys roll around on each other for points; I'm talking the greased-up, half-naked, steroid-injected wrestlers who like to hit each other with steel chairs. About a year ago I got the opportunity to work production for a little independent wrestling federation here in Cincinnati called Queen City Wrestling (QCW). My job basically involves hitting the music intros and ringing the bell. It's one of the few things I can do that make me feel like a kid again, instead of a 27-year-old with a mortgage, car payments, and credit card debt.
Saturday, April 16th, we had a show scheduled. I'm usually a procrastinator, but this time I got everything ready to go earlier in the day to keep me from running around at the last minute. As my wife and I sat in front of the television set, I saw a commercial for KFC and thought it sounded good for dinner before I left for the show. I drove two blocks and picked up some chicken and the usual side dishes for my wife and I. I scarfed three pieces of that greasy goodness down before heading out to the gym for my evening of wrestling. I had been drinking the night before. And all day long I'd been letting out some pretty rancid gas. I took a crap earlier in the day, and thought that eating something would somehow stifle the gas chamber. Mistake #1. I got to the gym to find out that I now had two production co-workers, Scott and Richard. They were both cool to talk to, and the extra help was a warm welcome to me. I went over the card with some of the wrestlers before the show, discussing spots, talking about who'd be winning and who was losing (sorry fans, but yes, it's fake). As I walked around the gym, I began to feel a pain in my chest. It was a pain I had never felt before, and putting my hand to my chest only made the pain worse. At first, I thought, "Heart attack?" No, I can't have a heart attack. I'm only twenty-seven, I don't smoke, I exercise semi-regularly, and I eat sensibly. That can't be it. I drank some water to try and calm myself down. That's when they returned. The rancid gas started to churn within my gut and began to eek its way out amongst the crowd, which had begun to shuffle in by now. I've had this feeling before at our event nights and usually it's just my nerves acting up from anticipation. I always try to put on a good production, and once the show gets started, they go away. So I tried to fight them off, assuming they would go away once I found my groove. Mistake #2. They would come in waves. As a fart bubble headed south, I tried to hold it at bay before it jumped the border. I fought back most of them, but a few of them managed to emigrate into the free world around my new co-workers. Oh man, they were rank; but I played it cool so as not to out myself as the culprit. It's just not the first impression I wanted to make. Showtime was getting nearer and my farts were becoming ever-present. I tried to fight them off, but they only came back bigger and badder. I'd squelch one off, and he'd go back up into my intestines only to come back with some of his boys to gang up on me. Then the cramps started. Oh shit, this hurt. It was just gas, right? I'd already taken a healthy crap before I left, so certainly I wouldn't have to shit again, would I? Of course not. Besides, I wouldn't want to crap in that toilet. Our shows are held at Spear's Gym, and it's really a boxing facility. We rent out half of the gym for the wrestling shows. Mr. Spears, the guy who owns the place, hasn't really kept the place up to code, so to speak -- the floor sinks in places, and the roof leaks, so you can just imagine how sanitary the bathrooms are. Fear of that toilet is what drove me to clench my cheeks harder and harder with every attempted breach. Oh, but the cramps only got worse. I began to feel them in my sides, and no amount of water helped. Sitting down only increased the pain. I was beginning to sweat. I weighed my options. There's a pizza parlor and a bar on either side of the gym. Their bathrooms were probably more sanitary than Spear's Gym. I checked my watch -- ten minutes before the opening match. My fears had begun to mount. The ring announcer and commissioner were doing last-minute check-ups, making sure that we were ready to go. Meanwhile, my bowels were pleading like Ric Flair on his knees, begging for a time out. Unfortunately, like Ric Flair, my colon soon sprung to its feet with a cheap shot, catching its opponent (me) totally off-guard with a cramp that caused my ass to tap out in submission. I was going to shit, and if I didn't find a toilet soon, it was going to be in my pants. I jolted up from my seat and tried to walk nonchalantly towards the men's room. It turned into a power walk as the cramping became more intense. I feared the worst. The bathroom has but one urinal and one toilet -- neither one of them are prison-worthy, but it was either in there or in my Wranglers, and I'd just bought these jeans a week ago. I pushed the men's room door open and was greeted by a closed stall door. Fortunately (?) the stall door isn't a solid one. It has wooden slots, kinda like vertical blinds, so anyone can take a peak through the door to see if someone's in there. It's not for the Shameful, but as bad as these poop cramps were getting, I'd shit in the middle of the ring if someone put a toilet there. I peeked through and found it empty. My ass rejoiced by giving me another surge of pain and thirty seconds to get half-naked before Colonel Sanders ran wild on me. I did a quick wipe-down of the toilet before sitting to (literally!) open a can of whoop-ass and pour it in the bowl. It only took one grunt to get momentum going, and it didn't stop for a good five minutes. Three healthy KFC-inspired logs found themselves down for the count as my ass was crowned the new heavy waste champion. I grabbed a handful of paper bag material thinly disguised as toilet paper and gave myself a good wipe. To my surprise, the toilet flushed down a majority of my onslaught, but it left behind a brown swirled painting of such symmetry that Bob Ross would've been proud. Hulk Hogan will tell you that the defining moment in his wrestling career was body slamming the eight-foot, five hundred pound Andre the Giant at Wrestlemainia III in front of 97,000 people. Steve Austin might tell you his moment was defeating Jake the Snake Roberts at King of the Ring in 1996, when he yelled, "Austin 3:16 says, I just whipped your ass!" For me, my defining moment was that warm April evening when Colonel Sanders attacked me from behind, only to find himself on the losing side of the bowl. If you're interested, I'll be at our May 21st show in the sound booth; and ThreePly will be happy to sign autographs for all PoopReporters in attendance. You could also meet Greg "The Hammer" Valentine while you're there, but we all know who's autograph you really want. -- Three Ply Post new comment
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