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 Nice Day For A Brown WeddingPosted 11.01.2006 by Nine Inch Log (361)
A few weeks back, two of my close friends got married. It was a nice ceremony. The best part was that it lasted all of ten minutes. That meant we were all able to get to drinking that much quicker -- after all, isn't a wedding just an excuse for the guests to get drunk courtesy of the bride and groom?
Before leaving my house for the wedding, I knew that I had to shit. I could feel the pressure and I was letting out some rather noxious gas. However, every time I sat down I would get a whole lot of noise, but no results. I relayed this dilemma to my friends when they picked me up. Knowing my history, they made several stops to let me try to evacuate my bowels. Sadly, I just could not drop the deuce. After an hour or so of running errands, we arrived at the Lone Dove Ranch, where the wedding was being held. I figured that I would finally have the opportunity to sit down for twenty or so minutes and push the beast out. No such luck. The ranch had no facilities to speak of. There was one port-o-potty, and the door was broken so that a) it would not lock, and b) it would swing open. After surveying the area and seeing several women caught in surprise as the door popped open while they were peeing, I figured that I could wait. I made sure to sit alone in the back during the ceremony proper so as to not disturb the other guests. Even so, I noticed a few twitching noses. Luckily the ceremony was held outside, so the smells would dissipate rather quickly. Finally the ceremony was over and it was time to head to the reception. Thoughts of blissfully unloading again passed through my mind. Unfortunately, the poo gods were not smiling on me this day. The reception was being held in a shelter a few hundred yards away -- and I use the term "shelter" lightly. It was really just a roof next to a pasture with a bar under it. There were two bathrooms in the area, but I could tell that they were mainly for show. Both bathrooms had old west, saloon-style doors leading into them. Like the port-o-potty, these doors did not properly close either. The door on one side would swing to the middle while the other would come to a rest sticking straight out, thus leaving a perfect view into the bathroom proper. Directly behind the doors was the toilet. The only privacy that it had was a shower curtain with the little mermaid on it -- no stall, no door, nothing else. The curtain was hung too high so you could see all the way up to the bottom of the seat, and it was too short from side to side so that either the toilet would be covered (leaving the pooper's knees exposed) or, if you pulled it forward, the tank would be exposed. To make matters worse, the toilet was clogged and water was slowly trickling out of the bowl onto the floor. Combine all of this with about fifty drunken guests and you have a recipe for disaster. I was doing well. I had successfully put the idea of pooping in the back of my mind and had it under control. Then, about an hour into the festivities, the bartender made an announcement stating that the women's restroom was out of order and we all had to share the men's. This had the unfortunate effect of bringing my forgotten need to the forefront of my mind. Suddenly, and without warning, I had to poop. I knew that I had less than a minute to squat my ass before the barking at my back door became a bite. I have never been a Shameful Shitter with this crowd. We have all been open about our movements and found humor in shituations just like this. In fact, when I first came home after my stroke, these were the friends with whom I felt most comfortable sharing all the horror stories, and it helped to have people to laugh along and feel sorrow when needed. An example of their understanding came on my first day back in the real world when I went over to show off my newfound gimping skills. (I wasn't able to walk yet, but I could hobble along with a cane in a very amusing manner.) We went downstairs to smoke when one of them commented on how it smelled like shit. Lo and behold, I looked down and discovered that I had shit myself and didn't know it (something very common when one cannot feel one's lower body). There were brown streams flowing down my legs, on my socks, and over my shoes, with a few well-placed logs around my feet. To make matters worse, there was a group of several strangers not more than fifteen feet from us waiting for the same elevator. With quick thinking, we grabbed a blanket from my trunk and wrapped it around me. Then, on the elevator ride up, a few of the strangers started sniffing and laughing. I was absolutely horrified that they would put two and two together and realize what I had done. At that point, Ky announced very loudly that he had shit himself and if any of them had a problem with it to take it up with him. The kids immediately shut up and got off at the next floor. Once upstairs, my friends offered me new clothes and the use of their shower so I could clean up. They all said a prayer for me and cried at my dilemma while I was cleaning up. These guys are true friends, and it was their wedding that I was attending. So I quietly notified a few of them of my current problem. They offered to watch the door while I did my business. I walked into the bathroom, looked at the overflowing toilet, and decided to go for it. It was either that or shit my pants. Keep in mind that since my stroke, my legs do not have full strength, so squatting for any length of time is pretty difficult; but I did it anyway. A few minutes into the poo, my friend Mikayla ran into the bathroom, stating that she had to pee. She ripped back the shower curtain with gusto. Her actions surprised the hell out of me and my legs gave out, causing me to fall and splash down into the deep brown water. From a mild impact, the water achieved quite the trajectory. Brown goodness sprayed out the sides of the bowl and onto the back of the toilet, the floor, my legs, and my pants. Mikayla stood there stunned for a second or two, and then busted up laughing. This caused my friends to remember their forgotten duty and caught the attention of quite a few of the other guests. Everyone turned my way and there I was, exposed to the world, fallen, still pooping, and in a puddle of brown water. Fear not: the story has a good ending. My friends rushed to my aid, picked me up, and helped me clean up and get dressed again. They then called the bartender/owner over to clean up the mess and fix the clogged toilet. When he started to complain about the mess, they all promptly pointed out that all of this could have been avoided had he made sure the toilets were in working order to begin with. All in all we made light of the events, laughed, and even held a toast in my honor. I love my friends. They have been there through more shit, literally, than anyone I have ever known, and they can still laugh and help me feel better. Post new comment
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