This is a story about poop, and that is all. There is no point. No moral. Nothing funny. It's about an odyssey, a marathon -- if you will -- of intestinal abuse. That's it.
First, I must give a bit of background.
I was once a big fat man. Then, six months ago, I started a diet and lost forty pounds of gooey flesh. And now I am a big fat man who eats less. Before, I ate everything that presented itself as food. Before, I had only one dietary rule -- I couldn't eat it if a) it won't fit in my mouth, or b) I couldn't bite off a piece of it. I was a champion eater. I had even developed techniques to enable me to eat more, faster.
I was also a champion pooper. Regular as a clock. Three times a day. Foamy, fibrous, stinky, and voluminous. Life was good.
But life has changed. One month ago, my wife (DungMommy) and I were to celebrate our wedding anniversary by going shopping in Reno, Nevada. For us this is a big deal, since we live in a remote mining camp with few services. We arranged to have the babysitter stay over on Friday night, as our trek would begin early Saturday. Friday night is the one time during the week when I can eat anything I want; and I chose bratwurst with potatoes and sauerkraut. Never can get enough sauerkraut. I ate a lot. That surely got the ball rolling.
We went about our normal nighttime rituals. Next morning, we awoke at 5:00 AM, packed up DungBaby -- one week old -- and prepared to leave. It was then that my wife chose to complain about the pickled eggs that had been brewing in the fridge since Easter. She wanted them out. I removed the gallon jar from the refrigerator and peered into the murk. There were fifteen left. No problem -- I figured I could scarf them down pronto. Alas, I had overestimated my ability to consume pickled eggs; I could only manage seven.
We sped off into the dawn. I decided that this day would be a day of binge eating. I explained to DungMommy what I was going to do and why I had it coming. She rolled her eyes.
Eighty miles later we arrived in Fallon, Nevada, for breakfast. We went to Jerry's, a kind of a Denny's wannabe but a little grittier. There I ordered the chicken-fried-steak and eggs with hash browns and toast. Momma ate pancakes. When the slop arrived, I dowsed it all with Tabasco sauce and gobbled it like an Orc eating Hobbit guts. I washed it down with milk and ordered the corn-beef hash with biscuits and gravy for dessert. Yum. About now I felt a train pulling into the station. I went to the restroom and dumped a heavy load. Nothing special. We were on our way to Reno before eight o'clock.
On arrival in Reno, we dropped my bike off at the repair shop. There was an AM/PM across the road from the shop, and I went in there for an emergency poop. I purchased an energy drink, a fistful of Slim-Jims, and a vitamin pack. This combination conspired to give me a bellyache. No problem, I've had bellyaches before.
We drove across town to the Wal-Mart to buy basic supplies. I informed my woman that I would be pooping on arrival. She told me -- as if I had lost count -- that that would make three shits before lunch. Thanks. I crapped in the restroom and strolled on over to the conveniently located Little Caesar's, where I downed a personal pepperoni pizza and a Coke. I wasn't hungry, but it felt good to pack it in.
Next, we headed for the bookstore. I think that Borders Books might be a little too civilized for the bowel action of a large omnivore in the midst of a feeding frenzy. The ventilation fan in the crapper was working uphill by the time number four was on its way to a watery grave. I got some burnt peanuts (and four science fiction books) on the way out and guzzled them in one quick motion. The peanuts, not the books.
Now it was time for lunch. Casino buffets are a good bet in Reno. We went to the Peppermill buffet and I started my heavy lifting. After my second plate of food, I realized it could make for a poop report, so I started writing down everything I ate. Here's the list, in order: sausage in curry sauce, noodles in with creamy cheese, fried chicken, bacon, roast beef, mashed potatoes with gravy, navy bean and ham soup, and chili con carne. I unbuckled my belt and went back for kung pow chicken, building a retaining wall around my plate with nine or ten egg rolls and filling in the cavity with kung pow.
It was too much. I was wheezing and rocking back and forth when DungMommy left to visit the loo. Right after she disappeared, I felt something shift in my guts and start trying to pry me apart. I couldn't run because the baby was there and his stuff was spread out all over the adjacent table. I started deep breathing. By the time my wife got back, I was tunneling into another dimension of consciousness. I got up and did the Fred Sanford shuffle to the restroom.
The shitter next to the buffet is an elaborate affair. Tile floors and real marble walls in the stalls, brass everywhere, a fourteen-foot ceiling. Anne Murray was playing on the sound system. I sunk down on the toilet and relaxed. It was big. My eyeballs bugged out almost to my glasses and all my vital functions stopped as the load breached. It departed in grim silence. You know how it often feels bigger than it is. I breathed heavily while the crew loaded torpedo #2 in the tube. Now came a rush of sour pulp, followed by water-poop, and finally a burning, abrasive sludge. I cleaned up.
As my internal organs slid back into their proper places, I realized there was now room in my abdomen for more food.
So I went back to the buffet for a bowl of Cap'n Crunch smothered in vanilla yogurt. DungMommy wasn't pleased. The baby wanted food and I had already eaten more than the entire population of North Korea would that day.
I had to lay off the chow for a few hours, but I dropped number six back at the AM/PM when we went to get the bike. We cruised back to Fallon, where we visited Taco Bell for our last meal of the day. I pooped hard before we ate. Supper consisted of six hard-shelled tacos and half of my wife's salad. We stopped at the last gas station out of town to fuel up and it was there that my digestive tract finally started to give out.
I think my body just gave up on digesting all the food; I crapped out barely-chewed Slim Jim debris and what may have been pizza cheese. I feared the long drive home, sure I would have to perform a highway dump. But there was no such incident.
I finished up at the house with a big, foamy three-flusher before bed. My butt-hole was a bloody, jagged crater. I don't think I ever pooped so many times, even when sick.
The next day I was stunned to learn that my ass was on strike. My broken pipes refused to produce mud for two solid days. Luckily, everything started back up again on its own. What goes in must come out, and that's the story.
-- DungDaddy
