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 Speed And NeedPosted 04.06.2007 by Mighty Dyckerson (29)
(Editor's note: this was originally published on the author's blog.)
The year was 1997. Bill Clinton was in office, Jewel's You Were Meant For Me was topping the charts, and my mother was still turning tricks at the El Paso truck stop on Route 5. Meanwhile, a little film called Speed 2: Cruise Control was playing in theaters across the country. The star was the lovely and talented Sandra Bullock, reprising her role as Annie The Hot Chick. If you've never had the opportunity to see this cinematic masterpiece, you are denying yourself one of the greatest pleasures life has to offer. The sequel was much like the original in every conceivable way, with one notable exception -- instead of taking place on a bus, Speed 2 took place on a boat. ON A BOAT, PEOPLE!!! The implications are staggering!!!!! I don't attend many movies in the theater, but this one was not to be missed. Still, I tend to be a bit frugal with my enormous wealth, so I waited for the movie to hit the 99-cent theater. Here in Richmond, there is only one theater that offers gorgeous architecture, live organ music, and a feature film all for under a buck: the historic Byrd Theatre. Built in 1928 and named for William Byrd, the theatre offers moviegoers a chance to step back in time and relive the Golden Era of Hollywood. With its hand-carved moldings, velvet seats, and ornate crystal chandelier, the Byrd is truly an experience not to be missed. Oh, there's one other thing that makes the Byrd stand out from today's modern multi-screen auditoriums: the shitters haven't been renovated in over fifty years. That's right. The Byrd has been plagued by budgetary challenges for years -- i.e. they have NO FUCKING MONEY. I guess that's why the hand-carved moldings look like shit, the velvet seats are lumpy and faded, and the crystal chandelier is held together with duct tape and prayers. But none of that compares to the shitter. Normally I avoid public pooperies like the plague. In fact, I had never set foot inside the Byrd's bung depository until the night I went there to see Speed 2: Cruise Control. (If I'd only had a little more BOWEL CONTROL that evening, I wouldn't have this story to share with you today. My loss is your gain.) Thankfully, I attended this movie solo. (When I go to the theater, I like to sit in the back row, shove my enormous wang through the bottom of my popcorn container, and churn my own butter.) All was well until about ten minutes into the first reel. That's when my stomach started grumbling. "No problem," I thought. "I can take a little discomfort for Sandra B." I continued to enjoy my popcorn. Another ten minutes ticked by, and the grumbling in my stomach turned to sharp pangs. Gradually, pressure began to build against the walls of my rectum. Still, I thought I could make it until the end. I paid ninety-nine fucking cents, dammit, and I was going to get my money's worth! So I adjusted myself and continued to watch. About halfway through the film, I could take no more. I felt a huge wave of shit pass through my colon and slam into my sphincter like a killer tsunami pounding the coast of Indonesia. I tell you, the pressure was unreal. It took every ounce of strength I could muster to hold back the fantastic fecal force. I knew I had to purge myself, but I didn't think I could make it to the commode. I waited a moment or two... finally, a slight relief in the pressure. Could the muddy waters be receding? "Better not take a chance," I thought. I got up, threw the remainder of my buttery popcorn on the couple in front of me, and made my way to the lobby. Just then, it returned. A pressure so great, I felt as if Mt. Vesuvius was about to erupt in my pants. I could hold it no longer. I slammed open the door to the bathroom and dashed inside. Christ, it was like I just passed through a time warp. The first things I saw were the sinks. Two of them, enamel, with pink marble countertops. The mirrors were rusty and cracked, and above each, a bare fluorescent tube light. On the far end was the "urinal," if you can call it that. Actually, it was more like a long goddamn trough built into the floor and running the length of the wall. You just stood facing the wall and pissed into ditch which was sloped toward a drain at one end. And across from the sinks, a trio of stalls about the size of small coat closets. And of course the doors swung inward, so you practically had to stand on top of the fucking commode to get the door shut. The floor was composed of well-worn black-and-white hexagonal tiles. The ceiling was done up in some sort of acoustical tile that I'm betting was asbestos. The whole room was inadequately lit and reeked of stale urine. I was just beginning to unbuckle my belt when the levees broke. It started with a warm liquidy trickle down my leg; then it turned into a thick, doughy mass pressing against my Spiderman Underoos. It was too late. I unbuttoned my pants, yanked them down around my ankles, and began to squat. But before my ass cheeks reached the throne, the unthinkable happened: a huge hunk of turd exploded from my crack, ricocheted on my pants and socks, and landed on the tile floor with an audible *splat*. I had soiled myself. Any chances of seeing the rest of the movie were gone at this point. And the truly amazing part was: I DIDN'T CARE. I was so thrilled to be relieved of that shit storm, all I could do was sigh and enjoy the moment. I just sat there while turd after glorious turd exited my body. But soon my euphoria turned into grave concern. In all my years, I've never met a toilet I couldn't clog. Surely the Byrd's antiquated plumbing system would be no match for the sheer volume of feces I was excreting. Not to mention the half-roll of toilet paper I would surely require to return my ass crack to pristine condition. Flushing could lead to disastrous consequences. I arose from the ancient crapper; and as I did so, I turned to survey the damage. Holy mother of Christ -- what a mess. All the water in the bowl had been displaced, leaving only a solid mountain of muck piled almost to the rim. No way in hell did I want to be anywhere within a five mile radius when that toilet got flushed. That was going to be somebody else's problem. The movie would be ending soon and the patrons would be heading for the toilets, so I knew I had to work fast. I quickly wiped my ass, concentrating on the worst of it and leaving the finer details for when I got home. Then I inspected my socks. A total loss. I removed my shoes, pulled off my shitty socks, and tossed them in the bowl. (At this point, what possible difference could it make?) Next came my pants. Fortunately the damage here wasn't as severe, so I was able to salvage them with the remaining bit of toilet paper. I had expelled so much shit, I swear to you I had to buckle my belt two notches tighter. Finally, there was the turd I dropped on the floor. By now I was out of toilet paper, so my options were limited. Besides, it looked kinda nice lying there juxtaposed against the 50's-era tile. Thinking someone else might appreciate my artistic statement, I decided to leave it there. The bathroom was still empty except for myself, so I darted over to the sink, splashed some water on my hands, and high-tailed it out of there. As I fled the scene of the grime, I couldn't help feeling pity for the poor soul whose job it would be to clean up that ungodly mess. So whomever you are, if you're out there reading this, sorry about that. Shit happens. And if it makes you feel any better, to this day I can't watch a Sandra Bullock movie without thinking of that fateful night and getting the urge to purge. Post new comment
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