It was a lovely Saturday evening. My crappy band, which I won't plug, played out that night. No Madison Square Garden, no Hammerstein, no Donnington-type show -- just a fun night out with my friends and an excuse to get trashed and play some good ol' rock n' roll. Before we even entered the club, I decided I'd have some fun with an eight ounce bottle of Robitussin. My beverage of choice was unbeknownst to my fellow bandmates, Matt and Josh, and Josh's girlfriend, Stacy, due to the adolescent and crackhead method of obtaining a buzz, and the name-calling that would ensue if they found out. I understand.
Usually it takes a good hour for Tussin to have any effect on me; so, like the genius I am, I started buying Bud Ice -- a drink that tastes marginally better than piss -- to wash that disgusting cherry taste out of my mouth. While drinking this, we were loading our equipment into the still-empty bar and eating some rather stale Marco's pizza, age unknown. After that was all said and done with, we decided to go to the back room and have a few tokes.
Long story short: we played our set, and even before we got off that stage, the jostling from carrying the equipment, playing the set, and taking stuff down begat some evil sounds emanating from below. I knew where this was headed -- but I certainly was NOT going to even amuse the idea of crapping in that place's pot. It was always plugged up with shit everywhere; and after a recent Mushroomhead show going on there, the toilet had no running water and had to be flushed using a bucket filled at the sink. People in a drunken haze, of course, are not going to consider going through all that work when they could just do their business and leave the mess to someone else. Mind you, this is a five-hundred-person capacity club with but one solitary shitter, sans door. You can only imagine the mess that lurked in there; every shade of bile-soaked vomit and shit was present all over the walls, the floor, and even on the ceiling. How it got there, I'll never know, and I would rather not think about it. There were even 11's all over the wall (which result from one wiping one's ass with the index and middle finger and then wiping on the wall -- hence the 11-shaped smear).
I am quite a Shameful Shitter in that public of a place, so I had to inform my ass it was just going to have to wait. And amazingly, it obediently did. *Did.* But now I was in Stacy's house. She was one of the coolest chicks you could ever meet, and her parents were quite cool as well. Since they were somewhat of hippies (though tidy ones), they offered a joint to pass around before we all parted ways. The DXM was in full swing, the beer from before was doing its thing, and the earlier weed was still somewhat present -- and it was all fully awakened by this new go-around. Suddenly Marco's pizza, the sickeningly-sweet cherry flavored PEG and sugar from the cough syrup, and the dizzying high I had acquired all catalyzed by about eight Bud Ices made its presence known with a thunderous rumbling and a downward shift. I still sat there politely and conversed amongst the group amid torrid-sounding internal farts that would even make the hungry green giant blush. I knew what was coming next, and it was certainly not fit to be unleashed in my friend's girlfriend's nice pretty bathroom with its pink toilet. So I announced that I wasn't feeling top notch and that maybe it would be time to go. No deal -- they still had another round or two with the joint; and if I wasn't going to participate, that was fine, but they weren't going to let Josh out of there unsatisfied.
At the moment I was thinking more about my ass being satisfied and releasing the monster I was laboring over. I told them I needed a breath of fresh air and went outside. Once I moved, the compressor that so wanted to rid this beast kicked into high gear and upped the pressure a few hundred PSI. I felt like I was literally going to explode under this stress. I sat on the porch rocking back and forth like an autistic child in his own little world.
Finally Josh came out and exclaimed, "Dude, are you OK?"
I managed to utter the word "No," and told him I had a jackhammer pounding at my balloon knot, and that it was winning the battle.
So we got in his truck and headed to my house. The sole image in my mind was my beautiful throne and how much I longed for teleportation to be a reality. Then the red alert sounded in my brain. That jackhammer was mere millimeters from breaking through; and when it did, it wouldn't be stopping. The bumpy ride was not helping at all. I informed Josh that I was not going to make it home. So he pulled over to the nearest store and let me have at it there.
My quivering sphincter was on the verge of breaching. I did the most fastest walk a person could do while clenching together failing buttcheeks. I entered the store, looked around, and just as I thought relief was bestowed unto me, I saw it.
"No public restroom."
Fuck. I went to the clerk and desperately told him I was in dire need of the facilities.
"You no read? No public restroom!"
I told him that it was beyond an emergency and I *had* to use it, and NOW. I was hallucinating, my eyes filling up with shit, and I even began getting that feeling like I could pass out. I was sweating, trembling, with one hand up the crack of my ass, afraid to even move. The guy had to have seen my obvious shituation. Still: "Sorry. No public bathroom."
I knew this was it. I had ten seconds left at best. I told him to fuck off and have a good time cleaning tomorrow. I walked out of the store, doomed to mud butt.
The store had a carwash attached to it -- and that was the only option. As I started to the carwash, the turtle was no longer in his shell. I sped up the walk to a run. Fuck it, I figured, I'd already broke the dam...
I went into the corner of the carwash, squatted, dropped the drawers, and...
BBRRAAAPPPPHHFFAAPPPPPP.
I mean, this fucker didn't stop. I had a squishy rope coming out of my ass at lightning speed, with excruciating smell. After literally a minute of constant excavation, it pinched -- only to be followed by two more aftershocks, each wetter and more vile-smelling than the last. All the while, I was petrified. I prayed that if miracles did happen, mine would be that no cars would come in -- because I wasn't moving. An F-5 tornado could have been approaching and I still wouldn't be moving. All the while cars were passing on the road only fifty feet from me. I was in plain sight to anyone who took the time to notice. I didn't care.
After about five whole minutes of burning, steaming, boiling evacuation, it stopped. I had to use my hand for cleanup, as there were no paper towels nor anything else deemed acceptable for wiping. I just cleaned up as good as I could with my hand, and then rinsed it off in the meager amount of water trickling from the carwash hose.
I glanced to admire the work I had done: a gargantuan pile of shit literally fifteen inches in length and coiled like a fudge sundae, complete with the little upturned top. Although the smell was fetid, I didn't have to deal with it. That guy who worked there will probably never forget that sight, and neither will I.
Some may call it turd terrorism, but it was justifiable -- he could have let me use the fuckin' store's can. But no. So maybe next time, he'll think twice.
My bowels felt great. I figured there was only a small dollop of doo-doo on the undies. If that was it for the ride home, the consequences paled in comparison to what could have been.
I got in Josh's truck, relieved, and thanked him for waiting. Soon enough, the smell of shit wafted up, and it seemed quite strong for only the small thumbprint I assumed was in the undies. "Dude, you smell like shit, man!" exclaimed Josh. I noted the same. I figured maybe my hand, which I had cleverly hung out the window, was pretty ripe.
But this smell lingered, and it got much stronger. I was perplexed, but still glad to have escaped total doom.
We got to my house and sat a second in the driveway, talking about the show and my minor mishap. I got out and turned to say goodbye and was met with one of the most horrified-looking faces I've ever seen.
"Dude, there's poo on my seat."
I looked down and got the same shocked-beyond-words look on my face. We sat there, in utter silence, for at least thirty seconds, looking at the large, mashed-in pile of shit ingrained into his seat. Yep, that was poo alright.
In the silence that followed the discovery, I rehashed how this could be. I knew I didn't shit my pants enough for anything to stain, let alone the very large, orange-brown, mushy stain that was on his seat.
Then it hit me. As I was blowing my load in the car wash, I must have not considered my pants could be in the way of the beef log I was producing; and indeed, upon later inspection, I discovered that the whole ass of my pants was covered in shit. Think of sweet potato pie. It was that color and consistency.
It reeked so bad Josh retched about four times; and I nearly did, too. I attributed the orange color to the bag of Doritos I ate much earlier in the day.
Needless to say, I fully expected -- and would have taken -- the asskicking that I deserved. Instead, I quickly offered to clean it up right then, and then do a much more complete cleaning the next day. Surprisingly, he agreed -- maybe out of pity, but probably more out of shock. I figured that Sunday afternoon wasn't the best of times to be steam-cleaning my friend's truck seat, but it could have been much worse.
After the cleaning, the truck still smelled faintly of shit, and the faint outline of butt-mud remained until he eventually sold it. Sorry, dude.
We're still good friends, but he makes no mention of that shitty Saturday night. I don't, either.
