My first two years of college were straight-up craziness. It was the first time I was away from my parents for more than a week. I didn't know anyone, since all my close high school friends decided to waste away at home, working or doing nothing at all. So I did the thing that most college students did to meet people: I partied. During the party weekends (Thursday, Friday and Saturday), instead of "studying biology" like my parents believed, I was out on Greek Row rushing sororities and getting my crunk on. It was tons of fun and created many hazy-but-great memories.
But with crazy times come crazy poops. On the very last day of sophomore year, my crunk friends and I were all done with finals, so we decided to get insanely drunk to celebrate our year done. We contacted the necessary people to get our liquor, since we were all under twenty-one. I knew that it would be my last time drinking until the next school year started, so I got a whole fifth of Grey Goose to myself.
I took my alcohol, went to the local convenience store to pick up some cran-grape juice, and headed to the fraternity for the party. After consuming five drinks (each drink included two or three shots hastily poured in) and playing a sloppy game of vodka pong (which me and my friend fellow PoopReporter Poop McPooperson dominated), I was pretty wasted and crunked out of my mind.
At the end of the night, stumbling around the fraternity and not fully knowing what I was doing, I passed out on some dude's bed. I woke up three times that night to throw up the curry lunch I had the day before and all the cran-grape juice. Oh, that was just deliciously spicy and acidic. I've never thrown up the rainbow before.
When I did wake up, I felt a rumbly in my tumbly. It was not just a normal rumble -- it was going to be a knockout. My eyes cracked open and I ran to the bathroom. I was still drunk, so I'm sure it wasn't exactly a straight line I was running.
I got into the fraternity's ladies room, made sure I locked the door, and ripped my shorts down like the victim of a depantsing. The wonderful chocolate lava just erupted from my butt. It was like a dookie volcano. I literally destroyed that toilet. The caulking holding the toilet in place was crusting off, the top lid of the toilet was menacingly clinking against the tank, and the invisible molecules coming from my butt and landing on the surfaces of the toilet and bathroom were questionable. I gripped on to the handicapped bar fixed to the wall and waited for the volcano to stop erupting.
Meanwhile, the scent in the Poop Room completely changed. It went from the sick smell of girl puke and stale beer to the all-natural smells of AsianSprinkles1.
This particular batch of stank was incredible. The curry lunch was still with me, which gave my butthole a special roasting and, of course, gave my feces deposit a memorable essence.
Finally Mount Sprinkles was done causing havoc and annihilating the village. Unfortunately, the house was out of their regular single-ply toilet paper, so when I started looking around for something to clean up the Horror Show, all I found was a massive roll of brown, stiff paper towels that have the texture of a grocery bag. I started panicking and made a second sweep of the bathroom, just in case I missed a lone roll of toilet paper or even the occasional roll of Brawny paper towels that were known to show up in there once in a while. Nope. Nothing. All I had were the pieces of ripped-up lunch bags.
I tore myself some stiff paper towel, scrunched it up (hoping that would somehow make it a little more comforting to my aching orifice), and mistakenly wiped. Oh. My. Gosh. It was like taking a fine-toothed comb and raking it across my dainty gorge.
After wiping the tears and praying that there were no deep cuts, I wisely folded the brown paper towel and wiped myself again. This time, it was much more smooth. I wiped another five times before I finally felt semi-sanitary.
When I got up, I looked at the toilet bowl and saw the multiple poop marbles, the dehydrated mellow yellow pee, and the brown paper towels, which looked like little crumpled-up poo babies themselves. My mouth dropped. It was one hot and sexy mess. Between the shock of the toilet scene, the nauseous gasses, and the ditched girly drinks in the bathroom, I was pretty queasy. I had to triple-flush the beast and scrub my hands four times.
I looked at myself in the mirror and saw bloodshot eyes and smelled the crunk breath and knew that I had to go home and sober up. I got my friend to take me home, where I immediately walked into the bathroom to shower.
But before I could jump into the shower, I felt another earthquake. I sat down on the poop chair and waited for the Horrors to come back. Mount Sprinkles erupted again. This time, the eruption was not as devastating, but it was not exactly in solids.
After a quick shower and a changing of clothes, I passed out for a few hours. When I woke up again, I was bombarded with the memories of the worst Crunk Poop there ever was. I weighed myself later that day. (Yes, I went to the gym with a major hangover.) I'd lost about four pounds from the puking and pooping.
The Crunk Poop thus served two purposes: a painful weight-loss method and, most importantly, a delightful poop report to share.
