I was on the plane heading out to Colorado to see a friend of mine. The only thing on my mind was NOT taking a shit for three days. I hadn't been concerned about going through airport security, nor was I frightened about flying over the Rocky Mountains. But I was terrified about having to crap in front of this hot girl whom I have a severe crush on.
I used the week before my big trip to completely cleanse my system of anything poop related. I stuck to a healthy -- well, healthy for me -- diet of no cheeses and very few fried foods. My thinking, although clouded by the prospect of banging a really hot girl, was that if I cleanse my system, there would be no possibility of a sneaky brown bomb being dropped out in Colorado. My plan was perfect. I ate only breads, pastas, and cold cuts. What could go wrong?
My flight left at 9:00 A.M. from Newark, New Jersey. I woke up at 5:30 to make absolutely sure my colon was beyond empty. I wanted it to be so empty that my farts would have no smell; so empty that if you tapped on my belly, you'd hear echoes; so empty that there would be absolutely no chance of having to dump for three days. I even went as far as taking an Imodium, just to pack my colon up tighter then a snare drum.
In case you haven't read any of my previous poop reports, I'm a bit of a Shameful Shitter. So shameful that I only shit in one toilet in my own house. I poop nowhere else. And I mean NOWHERE else.
I had taken a massive dump the day before my big trip. This was a dump that books should be written about. It was tremendous, stupendous even. Between my cleansing regimen and this dump, I was positive that my back door would be good and tight for at least three days.
My good buddy picked me up at 6:30 AM to make it to the airport with plenty of time to get through security. As we were driving, my buddy, in his infinite wisdom, decided we should stop for coffee. He stopped -- and I held my ground. No coffee for this guy. I was not going to spoil the last week of planning for one cup of the shit starter sauce. We got to the airport, I gave my buddy a hearty handshake for driving me up and tempting me with coffee, and headed in to go through airport security.
The security at Newark Airport is on par with the German SS. No employee is happy, and the only time they smile is when they get to give you a full body cavity search. Knowing that I had more than an hour to make it through, my bowels were fully intact. I rolled through security without a hitch and had almost forty minutes to catch my flight. We boarded and I was on my way.
I arrived in the Denver airport about six hours later, colon still totally under control. My girl picked me up and she looked totally hot -- the kind of hot that makes you get weak in the knees and butterflies in the belly. Colon integrity was now at 98%.
We headed back to her house and decided to go out for lunch. I ate sensibly and decided not to drink any alcohol. I figured if I whacked down a few beers it might loosen the trap a bit, and that would be a big bucket of bad news. So lunch was good... we made some googly eyes at each other and I realized how much I miss this girl... Wait a minute, this is a poop report. Back to the shit fodder.
After lunch, we headed to her apartment. I unpacked my stuff and we caught up on some old times. We had a good conversation about how she missed New Jersey and how she likes her new home in Denver. Colon integrity was holding like Hoover Dam. There was not a question in my mind that I was the boss of my digestive tract.
So we caught up, rehashed why we never worked out, and decided that next month she would come out to NJ and visit me. Before we knew it, her Garfield clock struck 9:30. She started on about how hungry she is and how great this steakhouse down the road was. I saw no harm in eating steak, so I was up for it. This would be my first and only mistake in Colorado.
We hit the steakhouse and she took the honor of ordering up a few shots before we started eating. She knew how much of a fan of Jagermeister I am, and started the night off with two double shots for both of us. We beat up the Jager, hammered down some huge steaks with all the fixings, and headed out to her local bar to continue the night of debauchery.
At the bar, my colon began to make its presence known. He wasn't happy about all the Jager I had imbibed, and decided to voice his displeasure with a few extremely pungent farts. I felt the gas cramps coming up, so I headed out to the bathroom to break the seal and expel a little juice off the top. Colon integrity was now at 75%.
My colon and I had a little heart to heart in the bathroom of that bar. "Don't go fucking things up for me, you son of a bitch," I muttered. My colon fired back with a few more cramps and ripe farts. I knew this was a losing battle; so, being the man of divine intellect that I am, I threw caution to the wind and decided to start drinking like a soldier on leave. I walked up to the bar, mumbled something obscene about my colon, and grabbed four more shots of Jager for my girl and I. Not one to turn down a drink, she whacked down her two just as I downed mine. She's a little thing, barely over 110 pounds, and she was feeling the pain of all this Jager. But she said she could hang, so the drinks kept coming. After about ten shots or so (I lost count after six), I switched over to whiskey sours. My girl was pretty banged up, so we decided to head home for some drunken long distance relationship sex.
Her friend dropped us off and we proceeded to make out in her living room. I went for the drunken hoot grab and hit somewhere between her stomach and the kitchen sink. She pulled away from me, gave me a look of disgust, and proceeded to puke all over her couch and the living room floor. She then ran into the bathroom and puked her guts out.
I sat down on the opposite couch, threw on the TV, and tried to find a good channel. About the only things I could find were some granola-eating hippies playing hackey sack, and MTV. In my book, neither qualifies as "good". And then it happened. My stomach began to sputter and cramp. The demons within were pretty pissed off for drinking all that clown's blood and whiskey. Colon integrity was quickly failing. But there was nowhere to go! I was in the living room, and my hottie was in the bathroom puking her guts out.
I summoned all the inner demons dancing around the fire within my colon and asked them a simple favor. I asked to quiet their rumbling and slow their dancing for only a few minutes. I would release their leader shortly, but right now it wasn't going to happen. I told them that if they complied, I would get a colonoscopy and go back to a sensible diet. They hemmed and hawed over the details, but we agreed upon a daily dose of Metamucil, and the deal was done. The grumbling subsided, the pain slowed, and the approaching train stopped a few miles short of the station. I had gained a few precious minutes -- hopefully enough time for my girl to finish her puking and free up the only toilet in the house.
She finished, making a hasty exist from the bathroom into her room and closing the door behind her. The way I figured it, she was way too embarrassed to face me, so I wouldn't see her for at least an hour or until one of us sobered up. I headed for the bathroom to do something I have never done before: shit in foreign territory.
I sat down on the bowl in a drunken flop and proceeded to violate this foreign toilet like Stalin had so many of his countrymen. It was horrific. The smell was like a three-month-old rotting corpse that has been sitting under your water heater, in August, in Miami. There was no fart fan in the bathroom so I was forced to breath in this nerve gas.
And then I heard it: her bedroom door swung open in a fury, and then so did the bathroom door. My girl ran into the bathroom in search of a place to vomit but all she found was me with my pants around my ankles and a room full of rank stank. She stood there for a second. She looked at me, looked at the shower, and then proceeded to rip the curtain off the rod and hork all over the shower.
So there I am, bare-assed, sitting on the bowl while the girl of my dreams is puking in the shower. And to make matter just a little more uncomfortable, the bathroom door was wide open. She finished up her hork fest, turned around and exited the bathroom without so much as a look or word. I sat there for a second and tried to take stock the situation. The way I figured it, I was fucked no matter what. Things began to race through my head. Would she tell me to leave? Would she never talk to me again? Would I still get some long distance sex? I wiped my ass, cleaned myself up, washed my hands, and exited the bathroom.
She was sitting on the couch; a garbage can graced her side. She looked up at me and started laughing. "Smelled like Staten Island in there! You couldn't even give me a courtesy flush?!"
And I was mortified. I didn't know what to say. Then she made me realize why I love her. She said, "At least we have the bad shit out the way now. I puked while you took a crap. If that's not love, I don't know what it is."
What can I say, she's a keeper. And she's all mine. She's moving back to New Jersey in the summer.
-- Pill Pooper
