The Day I Ruined Thanksgiving
Editor's note: this story was voted the Best Poop Report of 2005.
The day was Thanksgiving. The year was 1991. The time was approximately 3:30 PM. I was eighteen years old. It was a gorgeous fall day in New England. The trees were shedding their leaves and the sky was overcast in a way that makes Turkey Day in New England so precious. The wind was blowing the leaves around, and the air was brisk, but not too cold. Perfection.
As usual, we were hosting the family. This included fourteen of my first cousins and about twenty-five other family members and friends. We had a very large house and this was something we really enjoyed doing. To make it even more insane, we actually cooked for that many people -- we never got it catered. So it was quite an event.
I'm not sure what my problem was at that time in my life. For the life of me, I could not seem to take a dooker without stuffing up the toilet and making a big mess. This was happening frequently -- and, to be honest, my family was a bit freaked out. It wasn't until later in life that I realized that all my toilet could really handle was four two-foot long, neatly folded, somewhat thickly rolled up shittickets. And that it required a courtesy flush before the evil wiping took place.
In any event, on this particular day, I had to go really bad. I could feel something brewing in the oven and my bowels were sort of flipping and folding in on themselves. It wasn't gonna be pretty, but I knew it would be manageable. I've had worse, was how I figured it.
Two of the three bathrooms had people in them. When we had company over, I tried to use the bathroom upstairs so no one would be subject to my noxious fumes. When that wasn't an option, I used my Dad's bathroom. He had this really weird toilet -- really long, and shaped sort of like an arrow. It was the oddest thing, but it was a great crapper. But the arrow crapper was taken too. Shit. This left me no alternative but the front entry toilet. The one right next to the kitchen -- literally within about five feet of it.
OK. Front entry it is. I smiled as I walked by our guests, laughing at something my grandmother said, shaking my mean Uncle Bob's hand, put a comforting arm around my stepmom as she slaved over the stove. You would've thought I was the mayor. But political ambitions aside, my sphincter was starting to move. I really had to go bad. I slithered through the packed kitchen and entered the bathroom from my bedroom. There were two entrances, thank God.
Once inside, I turned on the water, adjusting the faucet just right to make the absolute loudest possible sound -- to this day, I can't stand when someone can hear me expelling my inner demons. I whipped down my pants, sat on the porcelain god, and tried to do what I call a "controlled evacuation." If you pucker up your ass just right, and lean forward just a little bit, you can make any gas you may have inside you leak out quietly, like a ninja. It wouldn't go over well to have forty friends and family members hear a huge ass explosion from the mayor not five feet away.
I dunno what happened, exactly, but I had some technical difficulties, and it all went terribly wrong. The main-line eruption from my rectum was loud enough to startle me, causing a small yelp to escape my mouth. I could feel the blood rushing to my face as the conversation outside the door came to a brief halt. I was ashamed.
I tried to recover my dignity with a fake cough that imitated the wailing banshee fart I had just released. Conversation resumed, but not with the same enthusiasm as before. I was so embarrassed.
Things continued on as normal for the most part as I let the terra firma slowly ease its way out of my junkyard. It wasn't the preternatural, extraordinary type poo I anticipated, however. I've for sure had weightier, longer, more evil-smelling, and even more disfigured fetid dirt piles escape from my deep dark place in the past. I would put this one at an 8, with 9 representing something you definitely remember as, "Wow, that's AWESOME! Let's do it again!" and 10 being something that either leaves you speechless or makes you scream silently on the inside. This was an 8, which was like, "Cool, that felt really good, and I'm proud of myself for ejecting it."
The smell was a bit off, though. I think it was all the apple cider.
In any event, I started wiping my sewer pit. I was taking off huge gobs of toilet paper and just going crazy with it. I guess I was a bit overzealous in my efforts to maintain a clean ass -- as I said earlier, I tended to overdo it at that point in my life.
I stood up, pulled up my pants, and turned and looked down at my creation. It was cool, although a little rank. I flushed the toilet. I was pretty sensitive to flushing toilets at that time because I had been forced to plunge my own turds more and more often. I saw the water fill the bowl and knew instantly that I had fucked up bad. Something was terribly wrong. The water wasn't going in a whirlpool like it should -- it was just getting higher and higher. "Oh my God," I thought. "I have forty people not five feet away from me. FUKK!"
Thank the heavens that the water didn't spill over onto the floor. It would've made for a better story, but it just didn't happen. Instead, the water filled up to about half an inch under the top rim. It was dangerously close to making my life a living nightmare. As is, I thought, it was manageable, but extremely embarrassing. Especially with the main-line eruption from my ass that occurred not ten minutes earlier that brought all conversation to a halt.
Since I'd had this happen before, I knew I needed the super plunger.
The super plunger is different from your ordinary plunger. It has these valves inside of it that flip open and closed, making for extra suction. It's really odd shaped, to say the least, but it does a really great job. (Editor's note: I think he's talking about one of these guys.) How on earth was I gonna get the shitstick out and fix this without them knowing, though? It's not doable... suck it up, Murf.
Keeping the kitchen-side door to the bathroom locked, I walked out the bathroom through the bedroom door. I made my way through the kitchen, keeping my head down, trying not to draw attention. Some of my uncles were smiling knowingly at me, and my older stepbrother blew out his cheeks, imitating an explosion. I felt like crying.
I made my way to the cellar door, opened it, and retrieved the super plunger. My friend.
I walked back through the kitchen, hugging a wall and keeping the stick on my side, very close to my left leg so no one would see it. Invariably, a few did. They didn't say anything, but their arched eyebrows and slight flinches said everything I needed to know.
I got into the bathroom, sweating a little bit now, feeling really flustered and even a bit dirty, I guess you would say. Being an optimist, I told myself I could have some fun with the scat in the bowl. I knew I had to be careful, though -- this was gonna have to be surgical plunging at its finest, or I was a goner. I started doing my little trick with the plunger, pushing it down, twisting it a little bit, letting the valves open and catch the inside of the hole where waste empties out. I started to plunge the fecal matter, going up and down rhythmically, twisting it, tantalizing the hole, teasing it. It was almost sexual.
By this time the water was two-thirds of the way down. I had the faucet turned on high again, hoping people couldn't hear me. I didn't know if they could or not, but I was too in to what I was doing, going at it with a fierce desire to see my life return to normal. I was at the point now where I needed to flush again. This is always a very risky situation because if the bowl isn't ready to handle the new influx of water that comes from a flush, you're fucked, and all the crap spills onto your toes.
I flushed and plunged furiously at the same time. I could feel the valves opening and closing, opening and closing, back and forth, sucking things up into the plunger and then expelling them forcefully back into the bowl. Those valves rock. Finally, the last of it went down. I flushed again, and rinsed the plunger to get off the nasties that had made their way onto its surface. Finally, the bowl was clean.
I wiped the sweat from my forehead and washed my hands. I combed my hair and tried to relax before making my way out of the bathroom with the shit stick. I couldn't leave it in the bathroom -- we already had the amateur stick in there for normal people. The super stick had to go back to its resting spot.
What happened next is almost too painful for me to describe. I think I have forced myself to forget some of the details, as this was, bar none, one of the most horrifying moments of my entire life. I truly feel scarred from this moment, and I rarely discuss it. I single-handedly ruined -- wiped out! -- my entire family's Thanksgiving Day, and they have never forgotten, nor have they forgiven me.
Steeling myself, I walked out of the bathroom, this time through the kitchen-side door. Fuck it, stuff like this happens, and it's OK. I just needed to get to the other side of the kitchen, put the plunger away, and carry on with my day. My mean uncles and sneering brothers could pound sand up their arses.
As I opened the door, half the room -- the half closest to the bathroom -- turned and looked at me, probably fifteen people or so. Apparently they must've heard the mighty struggle I had in the bathroom and the ecstatic plunging. Mind you, we are on minute 20 now. It's been TWENTY MINUTES that I've been in excremental seclusion. People notice these things, ya know?
I flashed them a weak smile, nodded my head a little bit, and made my way into the kitchen, holding the Super Plunger at my side. The kitchen was REALLY packed. It's about 3:50 -- dinner is being served at 4:00. People were STARVING and jostling for position in the kitchen and getting ready to feast. This left very little room for me and my plunger as I made my way through. In fact, such little room was left that I was forced to carry it in front of me like a holy relic. This position revealed to everyone exactly what it was I'm holding, and where I'd been all this time.
I thought things were OK, but as I moved slowly through the kitchen and past the oven, the silence became overwhelming. The horrified look on some of their faces started to alarm me. I followed their eye movements exactly, trying to identify what the problem was. Surely it wasn't just the fact that I was holding the plunger up in front of me -- as freakish as that must've looked, it had to have been something else. I looked behind me and, to my horror, saw a murky trail of brownish-green fluid leading back into the bathroom.
I snapped my head around and looked at the evil stick that held power in my very own hands. My mouth popped open as I saw the nastiest, foulest looking turd you could ever imagine hanging by a thread at the end of the rubber plunger hole.
The plunger had valves. Valves that OPEN AND CLOSE. Apparently, in my last effort to plunge the toilet, I had jammed one of the pieces of the rubber on the inside so that it stayed in this halfway open/closed position. Basically, the inside ring of the plunger, which folds up into itself when not in use, was off kilter, leaving the inner contents inside but in a position to release itself and open up.
At that moment, that's exactly what it did. The valve OPENED! As if it had it's own devilish, fiendish mind, the shitstick POPPED OPEN, spilling the contents of my ass down on to the floor, splattering nearby shoes, pants bottoms, low-hemmed dresses, and ankles of varying size. It got dangerously close to the prepared foods. Splashback hit the very furthest edge of the open over door where the turkey was and had not yet been removed. It's like the poo and the stick were in league with each other, and knew what to do, and when.
Various family members screamed, my grandmother the loudest.
There was a veritable stampede as people tried to move out of the danger zone and evacuate into adjoining rooms. My dad started to scream for people nearest the disaster to STAY WHERE THEY ARE! "DON'T MOVE!" he yelled. "YOU'LL TRACK IT ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE!" The French doors of the kitchen were quickly opened, bringing brisk, cool air into the house, mixing the smells of freshly cooked food with the smell of my insides. The commotion was unbelievable. I had ruined Turkey Day!
The aftermath was excruciatingly painful. People tried to be really nice to me and laugh it off, but the images of myself and my stepmother down on our hands and knees cleaning my crap up off the floor will forever be burned in my head. Multiple family members had to go into the bathroom and remove the brown-green stains off their clothing, myself included. I got it the worst, as it had hit my knees as well.
The turkey was deemed safe to eat, as it was far back in the oven -- forensic-like inspection of the splatter patterns indicated that none of the fecal matter had hit the bird. The bread rolls had to go -- a small droplet had hit one, and no one was going to take a chance. The kitchen, usually the busiest room in the house, suddenly became a ghost town for the rest of the day. People eventually recovered their good cheer -- well, almost -- but the evil omen for the day had been etched in crap. People called it a very early evening and made their way home.
My father, grandmother and stepmother eventually forgave me. They knew there wasn't a whole lot I could've done to prevent it. We threw out the defective plunger, and I was forced to learn new techniques with regular ones. Of course, what really helped, as I previously mentioned, was the good ol' courtesy flush first, and then the magic number four.
That Christmas, my stepsister bought me a plunger. If it weren't such an absurd gift, it would've been quite pretty. It was multi-colored, and on the rubber end there was a hand-painted turkey.