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 Sam Saves The DayPosted 02.22.2006 by The Dumpster (2506)
Several months ago, I was driving from my hometown of Stewsburg up to the neighboring city of Slippery Root to see my colonically-challenged girlfriend, Miss Hermione. We were, in theory, going to a concert by the Slippery Root Symphony Orchestra. However, Hermione, in her own recondite way, had hinted at certain, ah, carnal delights to follow if I were a really, really good boy.
Dumpster being the consummate ladies' man that he is, of course, put on nice clean everything for the occasion. (One would not want an impassioned Hermione tearing off one's pants to discover a ragged pair of y-fronts one had owned since college, now, would one?) However, with my usual lack of forethought in such matters, I had eaten for lunch the day before: two chilidogs with extra grease and a large chocolate malted from a place in Stewsburg called -- I am not making this up -- Johnny V's. Why would anyone name a fast food joint Johnny V's? And why, oh why, would anyone with any respect for their large intestine eat there? Johnny proudly proclaimed that his dogs contained a secret sauce. Boy, did they ever! To cut to the chase: halfway to Slippery Root, which is about a hundred miles from Stewsburg, the secret of Johnny's sauce was agonizingly revealed. Gas -- and God knows what else -- began churning through my lower tract like a flood in an Alka-Seltzer factory. Simpleton that I am, I hiked a cheek, thinking I would relieve the pounding pressure on my burning bung by releasing a bit of methane in the privacy of my vehicle. To my horror, however, both chili dogs AND the chocolate malted came cascading out into my pants, almost exactly as chewed up and swallowed by me, although by this time mixed with the vilest of shitric acids. O, Ye Gods of Shit? What am I to do? My pants are a brown puddle, my car smells like Stewsburg Sewage Treatment Plant #2, I have NO clean clothes, I am on a time deadline miles from home, and a hot, sexually frustrated woman awaits me! This was before I became a PoopReporter, so I thought I was the only adult in North America who had ever shit his clothes in so vile a fashion. My prayers were answered by none other than Sam Walton, who had thoughtfully provided a store on the outskirts of Slippery Root. I found an old sweater in the back seat and casually wrapped it around my waist like the cool dudes do. I went into the Wal-Mart and bought three things: a pair of pants; a pack of boxers; and a painfully large box of Imodium. There was one male cashier on duty, so I waited to go through his line. As he scanned my purchases, he sniffed and said knowingly, "Hey, dude -- the men's room is back that way." The rest of the story has a happy ending. Sam Walton carted off my ruined garments at no extra charge. I persuaded Hermione to take her car to the concert ("I'm almost out of gas..."). The boxers (plus the Imodium) enabled Hermione to feel the pink snake and not the brown one during the concert. And I, later that night, for one or two brief, shining moments, made her almost forget that she was a lady! I know that such as this doesn't happen to most of you, especially the Iron Sphincter types such as C. Everett Poop, but sometimes a guy's gotta think on his seat, as well as his feet! And from now on I'm sticking strictly to the grilled cheese sandwiches at Johnny V's! Post new comment
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