MAIN SECTIONS
MAIN SECTIONS
Stories About Poop Intellectual Crap Consumer Reports Fun with Feces Poop at the Office Techniques Travel Logs The Captain's Log Academic Poop Home  
RESOURCES The PoopReport Gift Pack Poop Culture: The Book The PoopReport Store The Skatole Shirt PoopReport FAQ Best Of PoopReport Press Room Advertise! PoopReport on Myspace PoopReport on Facebook  NEWS AND ADVICE The BM News Wire Ask PoopReport Ask a Poodiatrist Eternal Debates FEATURES Special Reports Movie Poop Archive Toilet Paper Survey Pooetry Comics Poop Contests MOVEMENTS Shameless Shitting Poop For Peace The Summer Stoolstice DISCUSSIONS Shit Of My Career Childbirth Poop Book Of The Shameless First Memory of Poop More... REPORT POOP Poop Forums PoopReport Chat Submit 
NavigationPoop Comics Our BuddiesLower left rotating ad most recent poll -- formattedPoop at the Movies |
 Brownout DrunkPosted 02.18.2008 by Gasputin (133)
It was the middle-aged crack whore of the beer world: cheap, pale, bitter, ultra-thin, and utterly toothless. With each sip, it boasted a flavor medley of rotting vegetation and perspiration that evoked images of being teabagged by the Jolly Green Giant. Nevertheless, aside from a few modest infusions of grease and sodium, it had formed the better part of my diet one warm August day a few years ago. Let's call it Ultra Old Choice Premium Lager's Best, although the name isn't important. What's important is that by drinking this seven-dollar-a-case swill, I was putting myself on the fast track to receiving public assistance -- and initiating a gruesome date with Sudden In Pants Death syndrome.
The phone rang. Mark was on his way over. I turned up the music and pulled the tab on another cold one. It opened with a violent crack (two words that also described the beer's aroma). I gave it a good tilt and soldiered on. People who lead ugly lives always do. Mark was an old college buddy competing in a Battle of the Bands at a club in York, Pennsylvania. The plan was for him to pick me up, hightail it over to Ryan the drummer's house, then leave as a group in Ryan's van. I was tagging along to help load and unload gear, to get loaded myself, and to provide the kind of raucous verbal support that only someone in the comfortable, latent stages of Hasselhoffification can provide. As we loaded the van, I noticed a half-empty case of Red Dog beer lying in the back. I asked Ryan if I could have one. He laughed and said I could have 'em all, since he couldn't remember how long they'd been marinating back there. I tried to spread some of the good cheer with my companions, but they wanted nothing to do with it. It seems they were of the mind that 1) the back of a van does not make for an ideal refrigeration unit, and 2) even on its best day, Red Dog tasted like Secretariat's kidney water. I opened one. It reeked of exhumed skunk. I took a swig. My companions were wrong. It tasted more like compost oozings filtered through the crotch of Joey Ramone's bicycle shorts. There was going to be a hellacious price to pay, but I soldiered on. I had a band and a demon to support, goddamnit. The ride down was boisterous and fun, but took much longer than I'd anticipated. I was a few sips into the second bottle when I realized I had to piss. Badly. But with two band members wives in the van, the old empty bottle-piss seemed a little crass. Asking to stop somewhere was also out of the question, since we were already running late and I didn't want to impose. So by the time we reached our destination, my bladder contents were readying an act of sedition. I bolted from the van and made for the club entrance, only to be stopped dead in my tracks by a hulking brontosaur of a bouncer. He firmly stated that they were not letting people in yet. I told him I was a roadie with one of the bands. He was unmoved. With the imploring eyes of the damned, I pleaded. "Please just let me take a leak and I'll come right out!!" He shot me a look that made it clear that he was deaf to reason, had the compassion of a flooded basement, and gravitated toward the cocksucking-douchebag end of the personality spectrum. In short, he was perfectly suited to his chosen vocation. In a frenzied state of pissteria, I scanned the horizon. Across a busy street on the corner was an Exxon gas station. Salvation was at hand. I lumbered across the street and made a beeline for the restroom on the side of the station, just knowing that on this one occasion the door would be ajar or unlocked. I was wrong, of course. The door was locked. So, indifferent to the fact that my exploits were clearly visible to people milling around outside the club and passing motorists, I scurried behind the station and let fly a tumbling cascade. It was euphoric. Head tilted back, eyes closed in the throes of ecstasy, I sensed that this 101-proof stream represented more than just physical relief. It was a sure sign that on this day, I could thrust my thumb in the eyes of the gods and walk away unscathed. I was drunk. I was blessed. I was a legend. Nearly finished whizzing, I nonchalantly bore down to shred a fart and put a little icing on the cake. Only this was no fart. And the icing didn't go on the cake. No, this was more of a sharp, authoritative thunderclap, followed by a violent displacement of rectonic plates and a downward thrust on the waistband of my underwear that bespoke of chugging gore. Conversation apparently hadn't been the only thing getting loose in the back of that van. I finished pissing before surveying the damage. It looked like a can of Alpo had declared jihad on the seat of my underlinens and then blown itself up. Chunks of rust-colored shit in thick blobules of hot liver oil were all that remained. Luckily my shorts were spared, but shards of broken ass befouled the back of my legs. It was the unmistakable kiss of a Milwaukee Spewer. Even worse: something much more sinister, and much more kinetically unstable, was chomping at the butt to get out. As someone who was all too familiar with public scataclysms, I quickly suppressed the paralyzing panic and fear that a thighphoon triggers and clicked into survival mode. The first order of business, of course, was to unleash a string of vile oaths and curses rivaling any uttered in nautical history. Next on the agenda was adopting the penguin-with-rickets waddle called The Buttercrotch Quickstep to lower, but still woefully inadequate, ground. The final step: gingerly stepping out of my shorts, squatting as low as possible, acting as if I was looking for a dropped quarter, and squeezing with everything I had. The kiln that was my ass instantly began taking care of business, huffing and puffing like Nell Carter at an equatorial Lamaze class. The only question now: in the event some ululating Sikh or unhinged redneck with Stage IV gum disease and explosive rage disorder came barreling around the corner to defend Exxon's honor, did I a) run, b) invoke the intoxication defense, or c) borrow a page from the chimpanzee book of conflict resolution and give the bastard a fecal peltdown he wouldn't soon forget? It was a decision I never had to make. It turned out to be a mercifully brief and private affair, and my shartshooter's histrionics were reduced to a frothing wheeze with no one the wiser. I put my shorts back on and hazarded a glance. Beneath a glistening bouquet of e-coli flowers lay a gently pulsing pool of jellied horror. This was no number two. This was something on the order of a number eleven. Whatever the hell it was, it was caught in the phlegmbryonic stage of development and clearly suffering from the ravages of fecal alcohol syndrome. And by the looks of it, I needed to start getting my earthly affairs in order. The cleanup began with my underwear. I got two or three good wipes in with it, noting with some disgust the tenacity with which the phlegmbryo clung to my skin and assfleece. For an organism born without a fully-developed central nervous system or connective tissue, it was pretty impressive. The anklet socks were next. They gave me another couple wipes which were by no means sufficient, but would have to tide me over until I could get in the club and give my pelvic floor the swabbing it deserved. "So this is what it's come to," I thought in a fleeting moment of clarity. "What's next -- shitting in a Big Gulp cup in an irrigation ditch behind Arby's? How much longer before I'm subsisting on recycled aluminum cans, engaging in Mad Dog-fueled chainfights, or getting back-alley titty-fucked by Teamsters for beer money?" Disgusted with myself, I left the soiled garments lying next to my very crude oil as a gift to Exxon. "That's for Prince William Sound, you fucks." As I teetered back to the club with several hours worth of clammy feet and balls to look forward to, I debated whether or not this was a story I needed to share with my companions. Common sense dictated it was not. The gallon of happy juice still coursing through my bloodstream, on the other hand, dictated it was. So when the guitarist's wife asked me where I'd been and what had become of my socks, I gave her and Mark what I considered to be a colorful synopsis of the events. Her reaction was one of revulsion, followed by avoidance for the rest of the evening. As for Mark... let's just say it was a long time before he asked me again if I could do him "a solid." Post new comment
|
Ad 1
Ad 2
Text Ads
Recent comments
Who's onlineThere are currently 0 users and 756 guests online.
Thong ad Highest Users
Browse content by author View some statistics Learn more about userpoints |
