Okay, I've managed to make myself incontinent for the last couple days. Any time a person makes a major change in their diet, there is going to be hell to pay. I've eliminated fatty foods, carbonated beverages, and alcohol from my diet for Lent, as well as for the purposes of getting into shape. ("Round" and "pear" are shapes, yes?) Ladies and gentlemen, in a situation like this, do not plan to go anywhere for at least three days without planning for restroom availability every twenty minutes. My body was on a serious poop purge when I changed my diet. The noxious materials oozing from my bunghole would have had Hans Blix and the UN in an uproar. Kim Jong Il and the Iranian regime were shooting me e-mails asking if they could build a pipeline to my restroom.
Then the phone rang. It was my wife. She forgot her keys and needed me to run them to work for her. I left home and got caught in traffic. No sooner had everything ground to a halt when the oh-so-familiar pressure against my sphincter and lower abdomen began to rise. I tried to lie to myself and say it was only gas, but I could feel the liquid and foam sloshing against the inner walls of my rectum. To be blunt, I had to shit. I had to shit BAD.
I looked to my left: cars. I looked to the front and rear: cars. I was wedged in tighter than a thong on Spring Break. I looked to my right: a small patch of wooded area. I thought: "Hey, bears do it!"
So I opened up a nearby bag from a discarded salad and grabbed a few remaining napkins. I unbuckled my seatbelt, began to open the door and --
-- and traffic started moving again. Here I was, gearing up for release, and they clear the wreckage ahead and start waving us through. ARGH!
I made my way, post haste, to my wife's workplace. By then there's sweat on my brow, I'm doubled over in pain like a recently butt-raped hunchback, and I'm doing baby-steps inside. I enter the front door and make a beeline to the men's room.
LOCKED!
Ladies' room:
LOCKED!
I knock on the men's door and hear a child's voice say, "I'm going." I don't knock on the ladies' room because I don't want the person inside to think I'm a purveyor of a bizarre fetish looking for "scraps" of some sort.
So I wait.
The sound of a child humming "Sponge Bob Squarepants."
I wait some more.
The humming of some other nameless tune.
I drop to one knee.
The kid is up and I hear the toilet flush, some more humming, and the clattering of a child trying to put his pants back on and taking his sweet-ass time about it.
I punch the door and scream, and then praise God when I hear a door unbolt and see an older woman shuffle out of the ladies room. I kid you not when I say this: I CRAWL inside the ladies' room and barely manage to get my undergarments down before my backside shoots off like an old side-by-side double barrel shotgun. *POOM* *POOM*
I was Vesuvius, and I rained my doughy wrath down on the tiny toilet town of Pompeii.
After about fifteen minutes of lightening-fast Hershey blasts, I'm finally panting and feeling better. I deliver three courtesy flushes the entire time, but I already know I've created the perfect Dutch oven inside the tiny restroom.
(*Blogging potty break.* Note: there was no toilet paper on the roll. Coincidence? I think not!)
I wipe, wash, open the door, and almost run over two teenage girls waiting for the restroom I just defiled. I skirt past and cast a quick glance behind me as I observe the aroma registering on both their faces.
I hand the keys off to my wife, exchange some quick pleasantries, and depart post haste, right past the same two teens who give me their best evil eye for making their restroom the Chernobyl of the Midwest for the next one hundred years.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am not proud of that one.