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 The Trade-InPosted 02.03.2006 by log_blogger (66)
In 1998 my wife got a fancy new job and a fancy new car to go along with it. Her choice was a bright red 1999 convertible Celica. She loved that car. In 2000 I got my wife pregnant with our first child. We were soon busy reprioritizing our lives; and, in so doing, we started eyeing that bright red 1999 convertible Celica. It just wasn't a family car, although you could probably toss a kid in the back seat with ease when the top was down.
So we started looking for a good place to unload it, since we imagined we were "upside-down" in our loan. We happened upon an advertisement for a dealer in Barstow who would give us 125% the Blue Book value for our trade-in. We printed out the Blue Book value, did the requisite math, and headed up Interstate 15 from our homestead in sunny Redlands. We were shocked when they actually honored their advertisement and we ended up with several thousand dollars left over to put towards our broken-in green 1996 Camry. Oh, was my wife heartbroken. So now it was early evening on a Sunday in Barstow, and we were both quite hungry. Our saleswoman snickered when we asked for counsel as to where we should eat. "You're in Barstow!" she said. "About the only cool place to eat is the original Del Taco." With tummies rumbling and an insatiable love for Del Taco, we thanked her and drove off to find our dinner. We scarfed down our burrito bowls and chili cheese fries and green burritos and hit the road -- only to find ourselves stuck in the weekly mire that is Las Vegas-to-Los Angeles traffic. Apparently an RV had been blown over by the tempestuous high desert wind; we were not moving. After about thirty minutes of this bumper-to-bumper drudgery, I felt the familiar cramps of an O-ring that was about to blow. The pain was stupendous as each chunk of intestinal rubble rounded every painful turn of my gut. I imagined that the anal avalanche was lubricated and fueled by the recent dose of hot sauce. I slapped my buns together so hard that my head hit the ceiling of the car. We rolled slowly south down the 15. Off in the distance, I spotted a beacon of hope alongside the ever-advancing line of cars: Denny's! One of the first exits in Victorville. Maybe I could make it to the brightly lit restroom of my new favorite savior: Denny's! I pulled our "new" Camry onto the shoulder and tried to keep my sphincter sealed as I wended my way between the dawdling drivers and the high desert chaparral. As quickly as the pains had come I was in Denny's parking lot, sliding into a space a few paces from the front door. As I killed the ignition, I felt the inexorable slide of the contents of my colon. The sticky sick muck squirted from my bung through rock-hard glutes and invaded every crevice in my nether region. It slid down the back of my legs and stuck to all the hairs there. It bubbled up the small of my back. I did the only thing I could: I walked into Denny's with feces galumphing down my pants legs and made a beeline for the restroom. Only one stall was open when I got there. I peeled off the fouled jeans, chones, and socks, and finished pooping. When I stood up, I noticed that everywhere I'd touched was covered in greenish brown poop -- which in turn was studded with small greenish "berries." "What the hell are those?" I thought. Upon further examination and a little recollection, I realized they were the remains of a couple of cups of raisins I had feasted upon the day before. The effluvium was miserable. People were shouting condolences over the stall. Little kids were being led back out of the bathroom in tears. Sometimes it sounded as if a whole athletic team of some kind was razzing me about the stink. During the next thirty minutes, I did my best to clean up. I pressed my soiled boxers and socks into service as asswipe. I tried to mop up the gobs of green gunk from the floor and the toilet seat. I slipped my stained and sticky jeans back on, threw my underwear and socks in the trash, and tried to make my way nonchalantly through the restaurant. The basketball team was chortling and pointing. I heard a nearby woman say, "My son couldn't go in the men's room. Apparently, the stench was unbearable. He had to come in here with me." I just smiled sheepishly and exited as quickly as possible. When I reached the "new" Camry, I slid into the back seat and tried to hover over the paper floor mat conveniently left by the dealership's mechanics as I stripped off my jeans and threw them in the trunk. My pregnant wife returned to the car, slid into the stained driver's seat, burped, jumped out of the car, and vomited in the parking lot. It was an intensely quiet ride home as I sat naked on my paper floor mat and my wife silently fumed about the events of the day. Post new comment
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