One fateful night, after a laborious workout at the gym and a spicy Cajun dinner, I was riding in my friend's car when the following tale un-bowelvelled. He was taking me back to my car so I could go home and do the deed. I had actually contemplated lightening the load at the restaurant before we left, but decided against it when I saw the aftermath of the previous patron's pillaging. "I can HOLD it!" I thought to myself. I thought wrong.
Only a few minutes into the car ride, it hit me. I was bludgeoned with a sucker punch to the shit-barracks that almost left me paralyzed. "Hurry," I moaned to my friend. "I don't think I can hold it for long."
"What should I do?" he asked, assuming I was capable of doing anything other than trying to force the smeller door shut and not spew chocolate milk all over the passenger seat of his car.
"Man, stop at that Citgo station!" I managed to mutter. I was near the soiling point and didn't see this story having a happy ending. After what seemed like half an hour we were in sight of the gas station. But when the place of refuge only two blocks away, they stormed the Asstille. What I thought was going to be a pressure relief fart turned out to be a mini-blast of colon lava. The battle had begun and we were just pulling into the parking lot. I was doomed!
My shorts were already beginning to reach half-a-stank status by the time I got the key to the restroom. Of course I had to humble myself and ask my buddy to get it for me -- that walk of shame was too frightening for me to attempt. Besides, what was to come was going to be the clerk's worst nightmare -- no need for me to fill the store with the smell of rotten lizard-meat on top of it.
As I entered the safe haven, I was afraid to pull down my shorts and see the damage dung. But I had no choice. The large hot Frosty I had already served up was only the beginning of the onslaught ready to ensue. As I carefully pulled down my scat-filled shorts, someone turned on the Hershey-hose, and I began to projectile defecate on the floor of this shit-stop. I quickly leapt for the throne, just in time to put most of the pudding in the bowl. It was like my ass was a fire truck set on autopilot and there was a blaze in the cistern that could only be neutralized with feceswater. As wretched as I felt, I was in awe of how much Yoo-Hoo one man could manufacture. It was a marvelous feat.
By the time the faucet ran dry, I was exhausted. I had lost about fifteen liquid pounds in one shitting, and I needed a shower and a nap. I tried as best I could to rid my undies and shorts of the toxic shit spackle, but I couldn't get it all out. I settled for what I thought was safe for transportation purposes and left the grime scene. Once again, I asked my buddy to return the key to the attendant. If the cops were brought in to the splatter, they would identify him and not me, so I was in the clear.
The floor of that turd corral, however, was not.
I'm sure the attendant either quit that night or left the mess for the day attendant, because no sane human would have set foot in that breathtrap. I had splattered a good deal of chocolate oatmeal straight from the crap tap directly on to the floor... not to mention the pint or two of dark roast coffee that had leaked from my drawers. It was the perfect setting for a mud wrestling death match. I was just glad it wasn't my house!
In my defense, I did try to clean up the floor a little bit; but there was no way I could mop up six gallons of Chocolate Slim Fast with paper towels and single-ply toilet paper. Besides, I barely had the energy to pull up my pants with the extra water weight they had incurred. I did what I had to do.
Needless to say, we got the hell out of there before the authorities were called. I went straight home and hit the shower -- I didn't want my skin to become permanently stained, or to contract smellanoma. My friend vowed a code of silence; to my knowledge, he has not leaked this story to the press, and I've waited for the statute of limitations for crimes of vandalism and grafeces to run out before telling this somber tale. And I have since learned that if I feel the slightest urge, I had better TCB before I leave the building.
So the next time you walk into a men's room and see an unwelcome coat of paint on the tile, don't get mad. Remember my tale and have shitty. It could have been you.
-- The Fartist