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 Waiting To ExcretePosted 01.16.2004 by The Shit Volcano (3740)
I often visit my sister Heather and her husband Dave (no relation) in Florida. At the time of this visit they lived in an apartment with two bathrooms: one in the master bedroom and one in the hall. It worked out great because they could do all their nasty business in their own private crapper, and I would never get the chance to dig around in their medicine cabinet.
Then came the Day of the Turd. I have boasted previously on PoopReport that I have giant shits that sometimes clog toilets to the point of needing a plumber. I could even charge for my evil little deeds, if the price is right. Well, this log was only about five inches long. But it was also five inches wide. (Okay, so that's exaggerating a bit. But that's what it FELT like!) Now before I continue, let me tell you something about Heather. She is a fanatic who "doesn't believe" in things from time to time. Once she didn't believe in watching television, so she stopped. Another time she didn't believe that children should watch the Crocodile Hunter and went on a big Internet campaign to warn parents of the dangers. At the time of my visit, she didn't believe in plungers or poo choppers. Back in the bathroom that morning, I desperately looked around for something to slice up my giganto-loaf. She must not have believed in coat hangers either, because I couldn't even find any of those. Nor was there a toilet brush, which has served as an emergency stick in the past. With a cringe, I flushed the toilet. It gurgled ominously before swallowing my load in one gulp. Almost. Many of you have also experienced the inevitable storm surge that results from a massive Poopicane Andrew. I frantically lifted the tank lid and pulled up the float to stop it. Water slowly dripped down the pipe around my jammed turd. I dropped the float and the toilet finished its process, never to flush again. But this wasn't a problem. I just used Heather and Dave's bathroom. This worked out great for about a week, during which the hall toilet refused to work time and time again. It was hard on the hapless couple, who were often awakened in the middle of the night as I racked up frequent pee-er miles. I peed a lot back then. Then the day came that I found the master bedroom door shut. Waiting on my side were Heather's cat and dog, who always got shut out during more... ahem... intimate moments between the couple. I guess they couldn't handle a dog staring at them during the horizontal hula. I suppose if I hadn't had three cans of root beer and four glasses of water I would have thought of the reason WHY the animals were banished to the hall. But I bolted right between them and threw open the door. A red light glared out at me from Heather's "mantra lamp," where she had different color lights for different activities. Blue was for sleeping, yellow was for creating, and red was for... well, think of the red light district. Bathed in a crimson hue were two horrifying nude figures grunting and bouncing on the bed. I flew back in utter horror, slamming the door before I was subjected to any more of this sick, twisted image. Choking back a gut-load of vomit, I suddenly remembered that I had to pee something fierce. So now the real torture began. When I was little, my grandma had something called the "tee-tee dance." Everyone knows it. Everyone's done it. It's that hands on your crotch, knees locked together, double-legged limp that says you've REALLY got to go. For several minutes I stood at the door dancing up a storm. Ten minutes passed, though it seemed like an eternity. My eyes blurred from the twinging pain. Someone whimpered -- either me or the dog. Another ten minutes ticked by at the speed of molasses. Swallowing hard, I braced myself against the wall and groped myself in the hopes of holding back the piss tsunami. Or, maybe my pains were precursor tremors. After all, I am The Shit Volcano. After a half hour of X-rated action on Heather's side of the door, another visitor dropped by to join in the fun. My asshole twitched and I heard an ominous gurgle. A gaseous ache fought its way up my spine until every nerve in my body throbbed in agony. The eruption was about to commence. (And you thought this was going to be another disappointing pee story.) I guess this was all karma for me, a lifelong turd terrorist. I'm not one of those sick bastards who shits on the floor or wipes it on the wall -- I'm just a low-life toilet clogger. But it's still cruelty to toilets, and karma always comes full circle. "Hurry up!!!" I screamed in my head. My shit and piss holes popped in and out in unison piston action. I ground my teeth and contemplated bolting through the bedroom to the toilet, never mind what horrors awaited me inside. I dared not to fart for fear of releasing the fecal/renal hoard. How could I hold back the tide any longer? Finally I heard a sigh of contentment. Heather and Dave made some kind of cutsie noises that made me want to barf. Heather came out of the bedroom buttoning up her shirt. Her hair was a bird's nest of bed-head. And then horror struck again as I heard the bathroom door shut and (gasp) LOCK!!! I moaned miserably. Heather noticed me grabbing myself and asked if I need to use the bathroom. No! I just get off by masturbating in front of my own sister! OF COURSE I HAD TO USE THE BATHROOM!!! She told me to wait for Dave, and went into the living room. Minutes dragged by. Something landed in the wastebasket with a moist thunk. The toilet set tapped against the tank and I tried not to hear that satisfying tinkle. I heard the toilet flush. Dave spent about three decades washing up at the sink. Then, slow-w-w-w-ly, he emerged. I didn't give him much time to ask about my rude dance steps. In a flash I was through the door and on the toilet. Remember what I said about Poopicane Andrew? Well, let's just say the toilet bowl was Homestead, Florida. Piss and shit ejected from my holes with a disgusting schlup. There is nothing like pissing and shitting at the same time when you REALLY have to go. Orgasmic relief followed my air drop. I sat on the bowl for a moment to savor the sensation. Cautiously, I peered in at the remains of my eruption. Poo flakes coated the chocolate water, drifting like stray leaves from an autumn poo tree. I saluted this masterpiece of toilet mayhem. From that day forward, I would always honor the sacrifice this crapper made just for me. Even after his comrade had already fallen from my brown bullet. It wasn't until I left that I thought about pissing in the bathtub next to the broken toilet. Or the sink. Then maybe my ass wouldn't have felt left out, and would have stayed quiet. Oh, well. It just goes to show how blind you become when you've gotta pee. So did I learn my lesson? Yes! I'm going to start charging for my brown baseballs. Or at least blackmail it out of my victims. Post new comment
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