One morning my wife had to take her father to the doctor's office for an early appointment. This left me in charge of getting the kids ready for school: breakfast, teeth brushed, washed up, dressed, lunches packed, and then walk them out to the bus. No problem, except for one little thing.
My wife had left before I had woken up and I had hit the snooze button on my alarm clock one too many times, so I was working on a tighter-than-normal schedule to begin with. To complicate things further, my bowels were finishing processing the Zatarain's red beans and rice from the night before, so my rushing around was accompanied by grinding teeth and rather comical dancing.
My kids go to different schools, with my son's bus coming around 8:30 and my daughter's around 8:45. My strategy usually involves having them both ready by 8:30. After my son's bus comes, I use the fifteen-minute window to empty the magma chamber within my bowels, hopefully causing minimal damage and only modest global cooling in the process. Then my daughter's bus comes and I'm off to work.
I held up my end of the bargain. As 8:30 rolled around, both kids were dressed, packed, and ready to go. And 8:30 came... and went. No bus. I watched with increasing despair as precious minutes melted away from my poop window, the fecal matter pinching between my cheeks and beginning to approach critical mass. What was going on here? My son's driver was always punctual. Maybe he got stuck in traffic?
By 8:40, I was standing outside my front door, looking like a distressed Quasimodo, desperately scanning the top of the street for the bus.
My daughter's bus showed up right on time. But my son's bus was a no-show. Now, with my eyes practically rolled all the back into my head, I began to consider my options. There was absolutely no way I was going to make it until I got to work to retch my starfish (as much as it would have pleased me to stink out my boss for a change). However, I had the fear that as soon as I went into the bathroom, the bus would come. God hates me like that.
Finally, at 8:55, enough was enough. I gave my son strict instructions to stay by the window and tell me if the bus came. With my legs going numb due to my rectal contents pressing against my spinal column, I staggered towards the bathroom.
I could practically feel the toilet bowl wince as I unloaded the first wave with the force of approximately several Hiroshima bombs. Then, breathing easier, I began to get down to some serious dumpin'. And then, of course, from the bathroom I heard the honk-honk of a school bus horn and my son yelling out, "Daddy, daddy! The bus is here! The bus is here!"
OH. GOD. DAMN. IT.
Instantly, I sprang into action, initiating a speedy rectal shutdown -- a little too quickly, as it turned out. I did it right smack in the middle of an anaconda-sized stool, and the consequences were steep. Let's just say that this was about as far from a clean break as one could possibly get.
I then made my second mistake. A brand-new roll of toilet paper awaited on the spindle. I made a desperate grab for it, hoping to quickly unroll several dozen squares to clean up the dookie decapitation. However, this new roll of paper had a defect common to new rolls: there was an indentation that caused it to rip after one spin. Therefore, my desperate grab yielded a paltry total of three squares of paper -- a pitifully inadequate quantity, considering the Yellowstone Park-like bubbling mud pot that lurked between my cheeks.
I plunged the pathetic harvest into the anal abyss and instantly rendered three fingers unsuitable for typing, cooking, or nosepicking. The bus honked again. I feared it would pull away, leaving my son at home and me with a fistful of poo; so, cursing, I pulled a wad of paper (slowly and deliberately this time) and jammed it between my cheeks, merely stifling the mess instead of eradicating it. I pulled my pants up and, holding the dirty hand behind my back, ran out to walk my son to his bus.
I squished my way to the curb, still keeping my right hand of horror hidden. It turns out that there was a substitute driver, and she had gotten lost. She apologized profusely, sensing the look of silent rage on my face without knowing (hopefully) the reason for said expression.
After the bus pulled away, I pulled out my hand and gave the bus driver a dirty, one-finger salute.