"I just took the shit of my career!"
I was a senior in college the first time I heard that phrase. A dorm buddy of mine had just walked into my suite to watch a little television (I was one of the few guys that had a portable in my room that semester) and, as we were watching some mindless show, he turned and ran that expression past me. He then proceeded to describe the monstrous turd he had just unleashed in his own suite bathroom down the hall. (I have a theory that Shameless types tend to attract similar minds; or, perhaps it's that the Shameful cling together for courage against the annoying dingleberries of their pooping lives.)
At any rate, my friend's utterance resonated with me then, and still does now. For me, it perfectly summed up that one memorable poop that I will never forget no matter how long I live. It took place when I was a third-grader -- just your average frenetic flash of freckles and red hair, absorbed in running around the schoolyard to burn off the energy of boyhood.
The "shit of my career" came upon me with all the attention-getting power of an audit notice from the IRS. I remember the feeling as if it had happened yesterday -- and I can't recall any sensation approaching it since. I was struck by a sudden heaviness in my bowels, which caused me to come to an immediate stop. This was no attack of diarrhea -- I could tell that nothing was going to detonate. No barrage of lit firecrackers, this. This excremental time bomb had a long, slow fuse.
I literally had trouble walking to the boys' bathroom. This turtlehead was of the snapping variety -- poking in and out with more authority than most -- and I remember it had me waddling the last few feet to one of the stalls. As I poop-reported in my early stories last year, I used open stalls without a problem from the fourth grade through high school, but my elementary school bathroom had doors. No locks -- but the stalls would close. So it was not at all unusual, therefore, to be walked in on by another classmate during the greater or lesser shits of one's novice career.
In this particular case, no one actually witnessed my feat. I will never forget the feeling of relief when my ordeal was over, nor my surprise at the size of the product in the bowl. For a third-grader, it was quite impressive -- both in width and length -- and surely would have rivaled a grown man's prodigy. I can't even begin to recall what I had eaten the day before (or days before, if this was the product of postponed pooping), but I can vouch for the fact that never since can I remember being so satisfied with my system.
From every imaginable angle, this was indeed the shit of my career. A solid, ass-stretching yet not terribly odiferous or strain-inducing experience. Once I had planted my little bottom on the bowl, the peristalsis became platonic. During that respite from the rigors of recess, I was indeed The Wizard of Ahhs.
I would dearly love to recapture that perfect pooping sensation; but though I generally operate with all systems go these days, and have produced some masterpieces of merde over the years, I may have to face the fact that I have already achieved my magnum opus.
So, fellow poopers, how many of you can zero in precisely on your water-loo?
-- The Big Wiper
