I Shat In My Parents' Bushes
Let me begin this story with some background. I was 23 years old at the
time of the incident. I have had previous bouts with IBS and marathon
pooping was not unknown to me. In the prior months leading up to the incident I had broken up with a boyfriend and moved back in with my parents. Feeling good about myself, I was going to the gym and eating right, and the diet seemed to make my IBS disappear. Or so I thought…
One unassuming Tuesday evening I went to the gym after work, as per my usual routine. I was in wonderful shape and loved how I looked. While doing floor exercises I saw a friend of mine, and we decided to go eat some dinner after we were through. I let her pick the restaurant -- my first mistake.
We car-pooled -- my second mistake -- to the neighborhood Red Lobster. I took it somewhat easy on the meal, ordering some grilled shrimp. She ordered the king crab, however, and insisted I try some. My IBS nightmares far from my mind, I ate a leg or two of her king crab with butter sauce. As we finished up the meal, she wanted to chat, but I felt the rumble down under, which brought back my memories of long, painful trips to various bathrooms. This being so, I suggested we head back, as I needed to get home. While she talked about who knows what, all I could think about was that I needed to get to a restroom pronto or the situation was going to turn ugly. Since we had taken my car and left hers at the gym, I did not want my friend sitting in a restaurant all by herself waiting for me to empty my colon.
The minutes turned into half of an hour of more conversation as I politely tried to scoot her towards the door. The thunder had not yet reached the point of exit, so I estimated I could wait at least 30 minutes before the brunette unload. I drove her to her car, said good night, and headed towards home, figuring I could make the drive in a reasonable ten minutes.
Unfortunately, the stomach craps were telling me that my loaded bowel was not going to wait that long. so at the next red light, sweating and red faced, I emptied out my gym bag of the dirty gym clothes I had worn and tucked them between by butt and my leather seats. In my brown clouded reasoning, I would rather buy a new gym bag than have to clean poop out of my car. As luck would have it, I was wearing a rather short, black skirt, so I had no barrier except my underwear while sitting. Still waiting for the light to turn, I thought it would be a good idea to light up a cigarette to take my mind off of the situation.
For those of you unfamiliar with the cigarette-to-poop ratio, let me just say this was the absolute worst decision of my night so far. It is a rare day when a smoker gets constipated. Doubling the stomach cramps and cutting my safe time in half, I ended up driving 80 miles per hour in a 45 zone trying to make it to my parent’s house. I was mentally telling myself I could make it. I saw the neighborhood entrance. Then I saw the driveway. I was home free! I parked my car crookedly in the drive and ran to the garage door security pad. I enter the four-digit code and up the door went. Watching it was torture, because I realized I wasn’t going to make it. The door had only reached calf height when I had to make an executive decision: Do I poop-trail my way through my parent’s house to the bathroom, or do I shit in the front yard?
I took a few steps out from the garage door, and aiming my starfish at the front bushes, allowed the projectile ass vomit to begin. Thankfully I had enough foresight to lift my skirt, pull down my underwear, and take aim.
After a few agonizing minutes, I realized my parent’s front porch light was on, illuminating my dirty deed to any neighbors who might have cared to look. My chute not fully empty, I pinched off, quickly pulled up my underwear while unwiped, and walked inside. Both of my parents were in the living room watching TV. I made a dead run to the bathroom. Luckily, I had my phone with me. After fully evacuating the offending seafood, I texted my mother the infamous message:
Can you please go to my room and bring me some underwear and shorts?
I heard my mom’s phone receive the text from the neighboring room and then my parents murmuring to each other. A knock at the door announced the arrival of my fresh clothes.
Embarrassingly, after cleaning up, I had to emerge from the safe haven of the bathroom. Both of my parents expected an explanation; they witnessed some strange things tonight, so I quickly recounted the events with as little detail as possible. Finally my father asked me, “Where?”
Having to admit that I sprayed the front bushes right outside the front door was almost worst than committing the act itself. My dad sent me out front with a shovel and a hose (as he didn’t want to inquire about the consistency) and requested that I make sure that we would not see or smell anything by morning. With my stomach contented, my butt hole blazing, and the porch light still on, I waltzed outside and cleaned up all evidence of my incident. Unfortunately, memories are not as easy to cleanse as front porch bushes. This was one of the first stories told to my new boyfriend, who is now my husband.