In the summer of 1997, a friend of mine who was living in Montreal, Quebec at the
time, was visiting her mom in Alberta. I'd wanted to get out of town for a while, so we
decided to go on a road trip in my 1977 Toyota Corolla. After visiting with her mom she
flew to BC, where I live, and we drove to Montreal through the states.
Along the way we both got a serious Taco Bell addiction because the bean burritos are
so cheap in the US compared to Canada. Of course, the thrifty shopper that I am, I
thought, "Wow! What a great deal. Only 89 cents! I'd better stuff my face while I can!"
I did just that.
Surprisingly, I was feeling pretty good and was taking regular shits along the way.
Nothing too abnormal was happening at that point.
About four days into the trip, we hit Fargo, North Dakota. This is where I was
introduced to Taco John's. When we went through the drive-thru I ordered five bean
tacos. What I figured was that I'd eat two then and
put three on the dashboard and save them for later on in the evening. Wisely, my friend only ordered two... Burritos for
Breakfast + Tacos for Lunch + Tacos for Supper = Bad Idea.
The next day we hit Minneapolis, Minnesota. I was feeling kind of rough, a bit
unsettled. We'd stopped to get gas and to walk around to stretch our legs out a bit.
The walk must've shuffled something around because I suddenly felt a big thud in my
bowels and it felt like there was a faucet running in my ass at full blast. I thought I
was going to explode.
I looked around and couldn't see any shit-friendly places. I felt like a deer caught in
the headlights. I didn't know what to do or where to go. I ran around the block with my
cheeks and third eye clenched trying not to let the burning bean mud squirt out. To my
delight I saw an Arby's restaurant across the road. That hat emblem never looked so
inviting in all my life.
I waddled past the men's bathroom, which had a sign on it saying, "Closed for
cleaning. Come back in 5 minutes," and into the woman's bathroom. I let down my pants
and squatted on the toilet, unleashing a lumpy brown waterfall. I swear I shed about
five pounds in that one sitting.
Relief! I felt much better. I reached around with a wad of toilet paper and streaked it
up. When I got up I turned around and looked in the toilet. There were two logs. Each
was big, thick and about a foot long; plus, a bowl full of semi-digested Chunky Soup. Mmm
Mmm Good.
When I flushed it seemed to be going down okay until the water started
filling the bowl back up, along with all of my shit. Frantic, I tried flushing again
and again. It was hopeless. There was no flush tension on the toilet handle.
The last time I looked down at the toilet, the shit water was near the brim of the
toilet bowl. I decided to ditch. In sort of an impetuous skip, I fled Arby's. As I left
I called out to the cleaner who was still in the men's washroom something like,
"Someone laid a real stinker in the other can. Something needs to be done about it
quick!"
Out the door I ran into my friend. I told her we needed to get the fuck out of town and
quick. We ran back to the car and left Minneapolis, headed for Montreal.
A few days later we got to Montreal. As I found out in my friend's bathroom, my Fargo
experience wasn't quite finished. But hey, that's another story in itself.
-- Snapper
