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Writhing In Cars With Boyz

Posted 05.10.2004 by Crapola (239)
I am half of an interracial couple. My husband is a brotha and I'm a patty. We live in New York City. My husband, like husbands of all colors, enjoys a night out with the boys. He especially enjoys a night out with the brothas. So every couple of weeks or so, my husband has a night out with his similarly-hued guy friends. They go to jazz clubs, nightclubs, and sometimes to cultural stuff in Harlem like plays or spoken word performances.

One night his cell phone rang its R&B riff. It was his friend Tim, in town from Los Angeles for a few days. Tim wanted to go out, catch up, and party. Plus, he had a rental car -- a convertible! For folks in NYC who generally only ride in yellow cars where you sit in the back and pay by the mile, this is a rare treat. And even more so for my husband, who is from L.A. and misses driving. He used to have a Porsche.

The two guys rode the convertible to a cool soul food restaurant. My husband had the shrimp special. Dunno what Tim had. Then Tim mentioned that he was hoping to hook up with an old girlfriend now living in Jersey. He had called earlier to say he'd be in the area. She replied that she was having a party that night at her place, so come on over, and bring otha brothas and sistas if you want.

So off to Jersey they went. As they sped over the George Washington Bridge, my husband let out a few fetid farts. That made him even happier to be in a convertible, since the stench swiftly swept away into the New York City skyline. He is a Shameful Shitter. Unlike most guys I know, he fears farting in front of his friends.

But the farts were just a precursor of what was to come (out). Suddenly my husband began to feel a Los Angeles-like tremor in his belly. The magnitude of his turdquakes continued to increase, mirroring Tim's speedometer.

A few agonizing minutes later, Tim rolled up to his old girl's place and called her to announce that he and anotha brotha were about to join the party. No answer. Dialed again. No answer! Just a message playing Mary J. Blige over and over again. My husband clenched all four of his cheeks. Then he told Tim what was "going down." Not an easy thing for a Shameful one.

Tim wasn't troubled. He recalled that there was a great club nearby and he raced to it, screeching into the club's parking lot. They paid the cover charge and were in! Tim strolled to the bar and my husband sprinted to the men's room. It had one stall. Empty! Unbuckling, he was ready for relief at last. But then he noticed that there was no toilet paper.

Re-buckled, with his intestinal seismograph going off the charts, he found Tim at the bar chatting with a cute sista. He signaled to the bartender and told him about the problem in the men's room. The bartender advised him to go to the bouncer at the club's front door.

So my Shameful husband, very very close to dooking his designer duds, whispered to the bouncer about the TP situation in the men's room. The bouncer yelled "No problem!" as he pulled a roll from beneath the little podium where he held court, handing it to my husband with a flourish.

At the door, crowds of people looking like a casting call for a BET video were swaggering (the guys) and slithering (the girls) into the club, dressed to the nines (the guys) or hardly dressed at all (the girls). And there was my husband, in full view in front of them, being handed a roll of toilet paper by the bouncer!

He was mortified. He tucked the roll under his arm to try to hide it as he made his way through the crowd... past the coat check... across the dance floor... around the bar... and back to the men's room. The stall was still empty! His poop was estimated at 8.5 on the Richter scale.

He felt better after releasing the seismic pressure. About 8.5 pounds better. But somehow, his belly was still ominously rumbling. He pried Tim away from a sista with the biggest butt in New Jersey for a private S.O.S., telling him that he felt sick and needed to go home NOW. Good friend that he is, Tim said, "Let's go."

Once again my poor husband couldn't enjoy a convertible ride across the George Washington Bridge. He couldn't even enjoy farting anymore. He felt aftershocks rumbling, threatening a quake high off the scale.

Home at last, he pooped seven more times that night. The next morning I hoped to hear tales of his night's fun. But he was so sick he could barely speak. He had a fever and he alternated between the chills and sweating. I bundled him in blankets, and fed him Gatorade to restore his electrolytes and aspirin to reduce his fever.

I wanted to read him some Poop Reports to cheer him up, but I didn't think he'd appreciate them at that time. So as he slept I went online and found Earthquake Loading: Buckling of Thin Cylindrical Shells with Cracks Subjected to Shear Load". Perfect! Nah...

Diagnosis: food poisoning, probably from the shrimp special. Thankfully my husband recovered, and has enjoyed many more boys' nights out since. Unlike me and my girls' night out at the tapas and oyster bar. But that's another story...

-- Crapola

Tydirium (516) -- 05.10.2004

I really dug it. great use of alliteration: " since the stench swiftly swept away into the New York City skyline."

I see nothing wrong with a third-party story. I don't really understand why his race had anything to do with it, but I guess when you're in a relationship like that you're a lot more conscious of it, so naturally it permeates stories and stuff.

Tydrium (not verified) -- 05.10.2004

Oh, and that title is incredible.

ThreePly (not verified) -- 05.10.2004

Damn Crapola, I gotta give props to your man for keeping things under wraps (craps?) and not destroying that car. I found myself in a similar situation at a seafood fest the first time I tried shark steak. Never touched the shit since.

C Everett Poop (not verified) -- 05.10.2004

So why didn't he write the story??? Second hand is weak.

Crapola (239) -- 05.10.2004

My husband didn't write the story because he is not interested in being a Poop Reporter. But it was a funny true story I wanted to share with you all.

UncleChunk (not verified) -- 05.10.2004

This story was too hip for me for me to understand. I am an old man and dont know about all this jive you kids say.

doniker (1535) -- 05.10.2004

not to be too critical, but this story was boring.
Other then having to get TP in front of people what was so different or entertaining about this story?
He didn't shit himself or destroy the bathroom, he had easy access to a toilet and everything turned out fine.
this sure was weak.

daphne (3522) -- 05.10.2004

OK! Not destructive enough for Doniker! No wea-poo-ns of mass destruction. I love it!!!!

I must say that the first paragraph had me giggling the entire time. My best friend is also the inside of an oreo union, and maybe this is why I laughed so hard. It was like hearing her relay something.
And, Crapola, I feel for him. Shrimp that has gone bad is not good. As you can see, I, as Doniker said about my forum post about Gatorade, "feel your pain". Or, his pain. Blechhhhhhhhhhhh.

Skid Marky Mark (not verified) -- 05.10.2004

So what does your husband being of the dark-skinned persuasion have to do with anything. The story could have been a lot shorter without all those references. Then you could have focused on the 8.5 poop itself--I mean you skipped the best part! Here I was hoping to read about someone soiling themselves in a Porche.

Joker (not verified) -- 05.10.2004

There was too much emphasis on all the people being black...is that important to you? Just wondering because a friend of mine always has to act black, and hang out with black people though she is Asian. It just makes me laugh.

Di Uhreea (409) -- 05.10.2004

The story was good. Nothing wrong with stating your dude's a brotha. I bet you're proud. And maybe you've had to endure snotty looks from bigotted people. Seems like you're cool with everything and that's good.
I liked the title for the three references. Did you get them all Ty?

Tydirium (516) -- 05.10.2004

three references? I caught the movie w/ drew barrymore, the boyz (in the hood), and writhing because he was in pain. is that what you meant? crapola, it's a genius title

JJJ1987 (32) -- 05.10.2004

That was a pretty good story Crapola, and I think we all felt your husband's pain, because you did a nice job retelling it.
I have to say, I agree with the girls and TY on this one, there's nothing wrong with being proud of an interracial marriage. I am proud to say I'm the product of one-- Black Dad and white mom. It's great that your happy, because when my mom's parents and immediate family found out she was marrying a black man, even though he was a leading NFL lineman- they disowned her, and to this day they still don't talk to her. We're better than them! Sorry got of track--

JJJ1987 (32) -- 05.10.2004

Typo: got OFF track

Tydirium (516) -- 05.10.2004

JJJ1987 -- who is your dad? we're two degrees away from fame!

doniker (1535) -- 05.10.2004

"tydirium (ty) -- 5.11.2004
crapola, it's a genius title"

DAVE MADE UP THE TITLES IN ALL 28 OF MY STORIES THAT HAVE HIT THE FRONT PAGE. I AM SURE HE MADE THIS ONE UP TOO. GIVE CREDIT WHERE CREDIT IS DUE...

stephanie lambert (not verified) -- 05.10.2004

It would have made a great story if you hadn't put so many details in it. Anyway, funny story, Crapola

JJJ1987 (32) -- 05.10.2004

My dad is Gene Upshaw who played for Oakland from 1967-1983. He was a left o- gaurd, went to three superbowls in three decades, and now heads the Players Union in Washington, D.C. (we live in Northern Virginia)

doniker (1535) -- 05.10.2004

I have heard theories that 1000 years from now there will only be one race.
Interracial mating is becoming more and more acceptable everyday; 1000 years from now if you are a "pure white" or "pure black" or whatever you will be a minority, who will be insulted and picked on.

daphne (3522) -- 05.10.2004

First off, holy shit. Gene Upshaw. Old number 63. Man, him and Art Shaw were such a team!!! No freakin' way. I am impressed. But, I don't remember him much after 1982. I thought he retired earlier. It's been so long, though. Who would know better than you?
Second, I named my own story yesterday, so I think some of us get off with our own titles.
Third, I think it's funny people are wondering why there is so much reference to race. I think that people are more sensitive to mentioning black-related (or African American? Whatever) stories, notes, and anecdotes than any other type of references. We can tease at gays, chicks, especially white dudes who can't dance, and the like, I think, easier than to make any black ethnic reference. Well, since my husband is in the Army, I should be more accurate and say that's how it is for us. Personally, I don't care, but I think the story was funnier with it.

JJJ1987 (32) -- 05.10.2004

Daphne, you might be right, maybe it was 1982? It was before me anyways. Yep he played with Art who now lives in Reno, NV and John Otto "00" all under John Madden.
You know your stuff

daphne (3522) -- 05.10.2004

Well, I may like a little football, but YOU are the one with the cool genetics! So, do you beat the shit out of people who try to get past you on the left? Hahaha!!!

Crapola (239) -- 05.10.2004

Wow - Gene Upshaw! Great player!

I learned football at my Daddy's knee on Sunday afternoons. He'd say "SweetiePie, go get me a beer out of the fridge." And with each beer I brought to his Barcalounger, my Dad would teach me something about football.

Hmm... what do Poop Report and the NFL have in common?
Both are all about the End Zone
(for starters :-)

it (not verified) -- 05.11.2004

The comments are much more interesting than the story. That's just sad.

Bob Poolick (not verified) -- 05.12.2004

Enough comments about being a "brotha"

I'm an african american and I found this story terrible. WHO CARES about your husband shit stories. Write your own!

anonymous (not verified) -- 05.19.2004

still creepie

Forest Sprite (not verified) -- 06.13.2004

LMAO @ Crapola. Good joke. :D

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