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 Brown Bagging ItPosted 05.31.2006 by The Random Rectum (45)
It was my junior year in college and money was tight. I was living off-campus in a two-bedroom dump with my roommate, a landscaper by day and alcoholic lunatic by night. Our paths rarely crossed, which was a good thing. Our little hovel had one bathroom which he rarely used, as he was never home.
Two months into my lease, I discovered that our toilet would not flush. Upon taking a crap, my fetid stew would gurgle and sputter, but refuse to go down the pipes. My landlord had the cesspool pumped -- to no avail. Because my rent was so cheap, I did not want to give up my squalid abode just because my toilet didn't work. It was then that I decided to think outside the bowl, and take matters into my own hands. I found a cheap wastebasket that sat low to the ground. It had a pleasing basket weave design on the outside, which I thought gave it some flair. I then stocked up on plastic grocery bags and designed my very own lavatory. Lining my jaunty wastebasket with the plastic bags, I had my own private crapper that I kept in my bedroom, along with several rolls of toilet paper. The first time I squatted over the wastebasket, I admit I felt a little weird. Here I was shitting in a garbage can lined with plastic. However, the contraption worked great. Whether I felt a simple solid or a liquid storm brewing determined how many bags I lined the basket with: one for a clean dump, two for ass custard. And so I became quite adept at sitting on my wastebasket and letting my bowels loose. Rather then the refreshing splashing sound of feces hitting toilet water, my ears got used to the leaden crinkle of the plastic bag welcoming my gift. Many of the bags were emblazoned with store logos, but my favorite ones were the bags that had "Thank You For Your Business" and "Please Come Again" printed on their sides. How appropriate. The fun part was removing the bag and its contents without getting caught in the act. I was always struck by the hefty weight of my shit and amazed at how warm it was -- 98.6 degrees, to be exact. I became an expert at knotting the top of the bag -- both in an effort to cut down on the stink, and also because they looked so festive with a carefully crafted knot. Not wanting to throw away my fecal sack in my own garbage can, I would sneak next door and use my neighbor's garbage bin. They were Deadheads and probably too stoned to notice or care. Like a cat in the night, I would trot across dew-laded grass with my steaming bag of turds, silently lifting the lid of their garbage can while the dulcet sounds of Jerry Garcia wafted through the windows along with the aroma of some wicked good hashish. The garbage man only picked up my neighbor's trash once a week; so there were at least seven -- more like nine -- plastic packages of my bowel contents in each pickup. In the middle of July, even I had to admit that it was pretty rank; yet nothing deterred me from my pursuit of hiding the evidence. I happily crapped in my basket for another six months until I found an apartment with working plumbing. And for those of you wondering where I peed: it was in the bathroom sink. To this day, I have a fondness for grocery store bags and their comforting crinkle. The sound always makes my ass pucker just a little. Post new comment
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