I can remember it like it was yesterday. It was on a Saturday during the fall of 1996, and my friend Doug and I had spent a greater portion of the day at the park playing Frisbee golf. We were on our way back to my house around dinnertime when we both decided it was time for a meal. One of Doug's favorite fast food joints was Burger King, and conveniently there was a BK right around the block from my house.

However, my house was about a block away from a rather sketchy part of Cincinnati. 'Da Hood, if you will. Normally this wouldn't be such a major deterrent, but the fact was that half of the employees of this particular BK were from said hood. When you have a bunch of unintelligible crack dealers and gang bangers running a Burger King, you don't get the greatest service, or the cleanest restaurant. It was because of this that I despised the neighborhood BK. But Doug wasn't concerned about it. He loved the Burger King's almighty Whopper and, by God, he wanted one today. So we pulled in.

We walked into the dusty old BK, and to nobody's surprise, the place was vacant. Totally empty, save for the employees who spend their time playing around with the grill and cussing at each other. Unlike most of the fast food joints around Cincinnati, this Burger King never got the facelift that many of the other restaurants received back in the 90's. Most of the fast food joints around Cincinnati either updated their look or shut down entirely. This BK did neither. It just stayed. The design, inside and out, hadn't changed since the building's erection around 1981. The water fountain that served as a centerpiece in the waiting area had long been turned off, probably due to a problem with the water pump, or perhaps the water bill got too high for the business expense. This was old school Burger King -- dirty old school Burger King.

Doug and I approached the cashier to place our orders. I ordered first for a regular Whopper combo with Coke. Then Doug came up to place his order.

Let me explain something about Doug. He did everything to a higher degree than most. When we were drinking, he was known as The Sink, because he could put away alcohol better than anyone and never experience a hangover. He could drag a Camel Light down to the butt in four hits, and he could put away a whole 10-sack of White Castles (Crystals, for you Southerners) along with a side of fries and large cheese sticks. So it came as no surprise to me when he placed his order in the form of a large Whopper combo with an extra Whopper on the side.

We stood by for five minutes or so, waiting for our cattle sacrifices to arrive. Eventually they were handed over to us. Since Doug smoked like a chimney, we were banished to the smoking section in the back of the restaurant -- three tables next to the bathrooms. We sat back, devouring our Whoppers in the bowels of the ghetto-ass Burger King.

Doug was a eating at a much faster right than myself. Before long he had put away his first Whopper, and paused for a cigarette break in between the two Whoppers. I guess it helped with the digestive process through his god-like internal organs. Two minutes later, he started working on the second Whopper.

Doug got no more than two bites into it when, in the middle of our typical Super Nintendo vs. Sega Genesis conversation, he interjected with, "Man, I gotta shit." Lucky for him, we were no more than six feet from the john. I casually motioned him the bathrooms next to us saying, "The toilet is that way!" He got up, walking calmly to the bathroom. I sat back at the table, alone in the BK, still munching on my fries and finishing up my Whopper.

Time passed.

More time passed.

At least twenty minutes went by. I had finished my Whopper and fries, and was sipping on my second refill of Coke when Doug emerged from the bathroom. It was like the reunion between two long-lost friends when he finally came back out. He was smiling from ear to ear and laughing with every step he took. With eyes wide with amazement, I asked, "Man, are you feeling OK?" I could tell he was feeling much better than before because it was through much laughter that he answered, "I just took the biggest shit in there! It smelled so fucking bad."

He laughed some more before continuing, "It was like this damn big," he said, clawing his hand in a way similar to how one might hold a baseball, "and it was about a foot long." Even worse, he confessed, "It didn't even go down when I tried to flush it. The water just sort of raised up to the rim before it went back down around it and gurgled a bit."

His continuing laughter only spawned the same reaction in myself. He cautioned me that no matter how bad I might have to use the restroom, not to go in there. It apparently smelled that bad. Once his laughter subsided, Doug went back to work on his second Whopper, which had surely grown cold at this point. He probably needed it to replenish his deprived system.

While I sat there watching Doug cram the second Whopper down his throat, a couple of the local homeboys came into the restaurant. They were the only other customers in sight. Before they placed their orders, one of them headed to the back of the restaurant where we were sitting. I feared he worst. I looked over at Doug as this man walked by us and headed right into the bathroom... and walked right back out. He didn't even let the swinging door close behind him before turning right around and rejoining his friend at the front of the restaurant, where he was flirting with the cashier. Doug and I start laughing, but we did our damnedest to laugh as quietly as we could.

Our two fellow thug customers placed their order and, just as Doug and I had done about thirty minutes ago, sat idly by while their food was being concocted. During this time, the second G-man starts swaggering his way toward the bathroom. I warned Doug, who by this time was smiling with anticipation, to play it cool. The last thing I want is one of the homeboys shouting about how much one or both of us stink. Sure enough, homeboy #2 walks into the men's room and, before the door could fully close, shouts, "Gyod Daaayum!!" The tiled floor and walls only amplified this man's declaration.

Doug and I burst out laughing hysterically. We couldn't contain it. In between laughs I told Doug to straighten up before the dude comes back out and points out the obvious crap culprit. Behind the closed bathroom door I could hear the sink running and the hand dryer blowing. I knew homeboy #2 would soon emerge from what had to be the foulest pits of hell. Doug couldn't hide his laughter, and as the bathroom door swung open, Doug turned his head to stare at the greasy wall in an effort to hide his guilt. I too looked away, sipping on my Coke as to keep myself from overtly laughing.

When the homeboys reunited at the front of the restaurant, the following conversation could be heard:

Homeboy #2: "Daaammn, did you go in that bathroom? It fukkin smell like shit!"

Homeboy #1: "I know man. I went in to wash my hands, but it smelled so bad, I backed the fuck out!"

Doug and I both left shortly thereafter with faces flushed red from extensive laughter. When I look back on that day, I can't help but acknowledge the power of Doug's poop. On that day, one man's stench creation overcame another man's sanitary needs. Poop is some powerful shit.

-- Three Ply