The Summer Stoolstice has
come and gone and my ass failed to produce the sought-after Long One. I admit much disappointment in regard to this failure, and I would like to know if there was any measured success amongst other PoopReporters this time around. On my part, it wasn't for lack of trying.
Inspired by the recommendations on PoopReport for producing long turds, I went about on a systematic effort to shunk a big Torvald. As a white Christian fuddy-duddy I have longed for some solstice ritual to blend benignly into my otherwise-passionless lifestyle. Surely this was it. I had to temporarily suspend my current attempt at dietary discipline -- fine. It was the Stoolstice, dammit!
I asked my wife to make beans and rice for dinner. That's one of my favorites anyway. She agreed. On the way home from work Monday I stopped at the store and picked up a twenty-two ounce can of peanuts. I munched the peanuts all afternoon, both before and after dinner. I figured I needed them all, so I was reluctant to share with the kids. Thanks to my stinginess, I figure I ate about twenty ounces of nuts, chewing very well. At dinner, I really ate myself stupid on the beans and rice. I was careful only to eat one tortilla with my pound-and-a half of beans and rice because, according to Digestive Control, grains increase the digestion rate. I also guzzled plenty of water to slow my digestion. I don't know if that actually helped.
After dinner I sat in a stupor for some time while my guts wrestled with a serious bomb. Lucky for me my wife is used to my strange behavior; since she's been witness to my self-imposed digestive experiments before, she asked no questions. Also lucky for me was her departure for the annual summer visit to Gramma's house the very next morning, so I wouldn't have to endure any serious ridicule from her and/or the kids. I would be batching it for the next two weeks.
I awoke at 11:20 PM with a dire realization: I didn't have enough poop to make eighteen inches. Estimating the volume and diameter of my colon and comparing that with the amount of food eaten (engineers can do this!), I figured I only had enough in the pipe for about eleven inches of dook. I quietly arose and went to the kitchen, where I gobbled down the leftover beans and rice. (And while the food was heating in the microwave, I ate twelve ounces of yogurt. That should slow things down.) Afterward, I ate a can of garbanzo beans and a couple spoons of peanut butter for good measure. If I ever pooped again, it would be a monster.
When morning came, I ate a double bowl of granola mixed with raw rolled oats. That should boost my scud out of its gooey silo. And my bum immediately sent up the let's-make-some-room-here signal; but I clamped down to try to consolidate my load. I kissed my soon-to-depart wife and kids goodbye and headed to work with a large bag of celery sticks. I ate the celery whenever I could eat without feeling like I was going to puke -- all that food I had crammed down in the last eighteen hours was making me sick. Couple that with a refusal to unload and the fast-moving fiber bearing down on a roadblock and you have severe digestive confusion.
I had no real lunch.
I must admit I was not confident. In all my thirty-five years I have produced only one big-long turd (and that's a story yet-to-come). Big MASSES of loose poop, yes. Big PILES of mini-turds, yes. But no monstrous loaves.
Hope springs eternal. Around three o'clock word came up that the dump was to begin. I grabbed the digital camera and shambled down the hall to the men's room. I think I felt a little like a young mother about to give birth to a super-genius must: trepidation, mixed with a noble anticipation of pride. I sat in the middle stall and prepared for launch.
I was immediately rocked by a giant toilet fart -- a convulsively violent pow! that echoed in the bathroom. I know one can't be lifted of the pot by a fart, but I nevertheless pictured myself being pitched headlong into the stall door, dazed, with my testicles blown clean off. It was that big. I braced for the big one, wondering what kind of lubrication would be required to push out an eighteen inch log all in one piece.
A bunch of hard, rancid nuggets rolled out of my blown-out can and fell plippity-ploppity into the water. Surely this was the prelude to my shining brown trophy...! Nope. I finished by pouring a large, pulpy load of mush into the crapper. My bung-hole must have been wide open for fifteen or twenty seconds during passage. The return of the rolled oats indicated that no more was to come.
I left defeated. No photograph, either.
Now. Did anybody else try this? I must know. My thinking is that we have one year to perfect the science. Input is needed. Stoolstice is a good idea; but if I can't participate, maybe next year I just shave my balls.
-- DungDaddy