Back in 2000, when I was on the dating rebound, I pretty much dated anything with a nice pair of boobs. The previous relationship ended when I learned that my best friend, I'll call him "Bill," had been fucking around with the girl I was dating at the time. I'll call her "Monica." Anyone who's been cheated on knows what kind of damage it does to you; so at that point, my only requirements for dating were properly pronouncing my name and possessing a C-cup or better. I know, I'm shallow, I don't care.

I was dating this hippie chick, Karen, at the time. She and I didn't see eye to eye on much since she was 6'1" and I was 5'9". Stupid jokes aside, she was a stoner and I wasn't. She was a liberal, and I wasn't. She was hot, and I wasn't. But the sex was great, so we dated for a while.

Karen and I had a weekly ritual. Every Friday night after work, we went to a quaint little Chinese buffet for dinner. She and I both loved different ethnic foods; it was one of the few things that we agreed on. So on the Friday in question, she and I dined on copious amounts of everything you can put on top of fried rice. Normally we'd go home after dinner and cap off the night with a good roll in the sack, but one of my favorite bands, The Mighty Mighty Bosstones were playing at Bogart's, and ThreePly had tickets.

Once our stomachs were filled with all of the MSG and cat we could handle, we made the trek down to Bogart's in the University Village next to UC. With tickets in hand, and after swatting away the usual beggars on the street, we found our way to the entrance. And who should walk right by me to stand in line behind us but "Bill" and "Monica." Shit, just what I needed.

"I can't fucking believe this." I said. I explained who had just joined us in line, waiting to get into the venue. Karen didn't really know them, she just knew of them, but she knew that violence could become an potential issue with them around me. My adrenaline started pumping harder and harder.

"Is it going to bother you, knowing they're here, too?" hippie Karen asked me.

"No, just let me get inside and get a beer and I'll be good," ThreePly responded, fighting back rage.

Eventually, the line started to move and we got in. Knowing that I may need some help calming down, I started drinking as soon I got in. Bogart's isn't a huge club. It's about the size of your average McDonald's restaurant, only with a balcony level as well. Inside, some band was already playing a bunch of cover songs in a pseudo-punk/ska way. While they were in the middle of covering Johnny Cash's Ring of Fire, Dicky, the lead singer of the Bosstones, walked by me and up to the bar. Suddenly a huge crowd of people chased after him and I'm being pushed and shoved aside so all of Dicky's fans can harass him.

The bum's rush of fans triggered a totally different bum's rush from deep within.

All of that chicken lo mein and crab legs began to have their way with me, and suddenly I got this pressure down in my gut that told me if I didn't find a toilet soon, there would be a mosh pit in my shorts. Knowing my body all too well, I told Karen I needed to find the john. She knew layout of Bogart's much better than I did, having been to more concerts than me, and she said I could either use the bathroom downstairs or use the one upstairs. Since I didn't feel like I could trust my ass to an uphill climb, I opted for the downstairs bathroom.

The atmosphere got more ominous with every step downward. I feared what condition the bathroom would be in. This was a college town, and this venue in particular is surrounded with all sorts of kink and fetish shops. I wasn't expecting much.

My expectations should've been lower.

Before me were two urinals and a lonesome toilet, fully exposed. The walls that would normally surround the toilet had been completely bashed and torn away from their hinges. I can only guess that something along the size of a grizzly bear had ravaged the bathroom earlier that night. Even worse, the toilet itself was broken and leaking water from beneath.

"No way, I can't shit here." I thought. If eating vast amounts of Chinese food was my first cardinal mistake of the night, I was about to make number two. I decided that I would take a piss in hopes of giving myself the relief I needed. Had PoopReport existed back then, I would've known better, but it didn't and I didn't. So I took a piss and made the painful walk back upstairs to the main floor where the cover punk band was still playing. The music booming through the speakers was juggling my guts even worse, loosening the demon I thought I could fight off. I found Karen and finished up my beer.

Mistake #3. The crowd size had only grown in the five minutes I was away relieving myself and the place was beginning to warm up from everyone's body heat. Beer and heat don't do the colon much good. Not ten minutes after my initial return, I told Karen I had to use the john again. She became suspicious, so when I explained that the basement bathroom looked like Chernobyl, she pointed me towards the upstairs bathroom. With head hanging low, I began the climb upstairs. What would normally be a simple walk upstairs felt like scaling Mt. Everest. And my ass was ready for an avalanche.

Again I prayed that God would bless me with a more sanitary toilet than the previous, but I think He was off helping some starving kids in some third-world nation at the time, because what I walked into appeared to be a third-world nation of its own, only lined with porcelain tile. There was just one toilet, but it had walls. Just barely, but they were there. The door lock had been removed, and for a slight second, I considered leaving Bogart's and running across the street to Wendy's. But my ass was belching and judgment day was upon me. I grabbed a wad of toilet paper, quickly wiped off the piss and crabs that normally infest public toilet seats in college towns, and sat down. The door wouldn't shut, but I didn't care. Time was of the essence, and I had nearly none to spare.

The moment my ass hit the seat, my stomach ringed itself out. There wasn't a solid piece in sight, just a constant burning flow of poo lava in between farts that suspiciously smelled of soy sauce. Traffic was high in the bathroom. A good ten to fifteen people could hear the onslaught behind the walls as they pissed, puked and smoked weed outside the stall. I was taking my own shamelessness to a new high. I didn't care. I had no choice.

After a good ten minutes, my ass was letting off steam. The battle was over. I unraveled a softball-sized wad of toilet paper and gave the crack a good wipe. The paper was covered in brown. It was hideous. I stood up, buckled up and gave the toilet a flush. I have no doubt in my mind that I clogged that toilet. I didn't even stick around to confirm it. I walked right out without washing my hands, something I normally can't stand, and reunited with Karen. She asked what took so long, but I told her its best not to know. She then asked if I wanted to watch from the upper balcony level, where we could sit down instead of standing in the midst of the crowd, to which I happily obliged. We sat up in the balcony for the rest of the night and watched the Bosstones in comfort. I haven't been back to Bogart's since.

-- Three Ply