After reading many poop reports, I have learned that turd terrorism is a hotly debated issue and should be reserved for only the most extreme of circumstances. The following is not a story of such circumstances. This is the story about a girl, and the poo she inspired.
It all began about a year ago, when Mel (name changed to protect the innocent) rented a room in a house from some guy to live in for the remainder of the school year. Make no mistake -- this guy was a total dipshit (seriously, he needed to be dipped in a vat of boiling shit). During the course her stay, Mel had to put up with a variety of childish acts, such as refusing to turn on the heater or air conditioner and then removing the thermostat from the wall to prevent even the option of changing the temperature.
The reasons for Mel putting up with this debauchery were two-fold: 1) cheap rent, and 2) he never made her sign a lease. All of this changed two months ago when the roommate decided to purchase a BMW and then realized that he could not afford it. He raised the rent and made her sign a lease (can you see the pattern of jackassness?). In the ultimate display of idiocy, after the lease was signed the to-be-terrored told Mel that she needed to move to make room for a high school buddy. Mel, glad for a way out, promptly found a new place.
A little bit of background on this girl is needed prior to the rest of the story: I am in love with this woman. Not puppy love, not high school sweetheart love, but full on absolute want-to-spend-the-rest-of-my-life-with in love with her. I would -- and have, as is soon to be described -- do anything for her.
With both of us being fans of PoopReport, the idea of turd terrorism arose in the form of the dreaded upper decker. Everything was set for this event. Her second-grade roommate did not know her number or where she was moving. And me, being head over heels in love, hoped that turd terrorism would finally win her heart.
I spent the next few days developing a game plan. Fortunately, the night before the move was my buddy's twenty-first birthday. Prior to embarking on what was to be one of the most memorable nights of drinking in recent history (a story in and of itself, but not for this crowd), Mel and I gorged on some Mexican cuisine. I use the word "cuisine" very lightly; the more appropriate phrase for this particular food is "Mexican ass fire" (it is notorious for giving me diarrhea on the same scale as the bombing of Hiroshima).
Round two: lots of beer, tons of shots, and even worse Mexican food (just imagine a Mexican restaurant foul enough to serve drunk people at three AM). Throughout the course of the night there were smells wafting from my ass that would drop horseflies and raise cattle from their graves. Several times the rancid ass stink was so bad that I thought I had shit my pants; yet I persevered and continued my night of drinking, eating bad food, and brewing a shit storm of biblical proportions.
After arriving home, the night was one of little sleep accompanied by cramps that would make a menopausal woman proud. I couldn't stand, sit, or even think about anything other than holding back what was to become the worst shit storm since the big bang.
Finally the morning of freedom arrived. Curiously enough, I had developed a problem: I no longer needed to poo. In fact, I could not poo. Upon waking, I instinctively sat down for my morning ritual -- and nothing happened. I pushed and pushed and nothing continued to happen. The pain had me on the verge of tears, yet I could not poo. I had held it for too long; my body was going through recycle mode.
Not being one to let pain interfere, I continued through my day, helping Mel move and focusing on foods that would that I knew would make my ass spew. Regardless of the pain or the consequences, I was determined to blow ass chunks in said individual's upper tank. After hours of lifting, squatting, driving in the 100+ degree heat, and eating habanera salsa, the moment arrived.
One must understand: this was not a typical poo moment. It was THE moment for turd terrorism; and what's more, it was the first time in our five-year history that there was going to be a conveyed understanding between Mel and I that I was about to lay down the foulest smelling shit since the bubonic plague. It was at that moment, the moment when I told the woman of my dreams that I was about to give birth to Satan via my asshole, that I realized what true love was.
The time had come. I grabbed the only remaining roll of toilet paper available (her roommate had been leaching off of hers for quite some time) and solemnly duck-walked into the bathroom. I removed the lid from the tank, stood on the bowl, squatted, and released a concussion bomb of brown napalm into the poor commode. Wave after wave of spicy defilement was evacuated from my bowels. Each bit increased the burning fire in my ass. The stench was so thick that I could see it.
For those of you who do not know, performing an upper decker is quite the affair. One must balance on the bowl with your pants around your ankles and squat precariously while teetering over the tank like a drunken ballerina. The tank is very narrow and looks like it is not designed to support the full weight of an individual. It is too narrow to get your entire ass over, so the fear of spillage is very real; plus, you are not given the luxury of being able to pee.
So there I was, hung over the tank, feet on bowl, pants around ankles, squatting and grunting like a baboon as I expelled the noxious froth. For a full five minutes my ass spewed cottage cheese. By the time I was finished I was so weak that I nearly fell over. The only thing that kept me up was imagining the humiliation of what it would be like lying on the ground, shit spraying across the room as I screamed for help.
Finally the assault had slowed to a stop. And then it hit me: what about wiping? Normally I would just wipe, put the paper in the bowl, and then flush when done. However, in this situation that would not work. If I flushed, it would ruin the surprise. If I left the toilet paper in the bowl, same situation -- and I really didn't want to put the paper in the upper tank. After pondering the possible options, I decided to dispose of the paper in the wastebasket next to the toilet. (Ironically, Mel was the first person to walk into the defiled room, and her reaction was priceless.)
Once finished, we moved the final few items into her car and sped off right as her roommate pulled in behind us. (Un)fortunately, that was probably going to be the last time either of us saw or heard from him, so I'll never know what happened.
In the end I am proud, yet ashamed. I am proud that I was able to perform such a duty for my eternal love; yet I am ashamed at performing an act of turd terrorism. I guess all that is left to say is that in the end, love conquers all.