For as long as I remember, I have suffered from IBS with constipation. I eat a healthy, vegetarian diet loaded with whole grains, fiber, and things that should make my colon quiver with joy. But, alas, I have a lazy colon. While it refuses to recognize when the cannons are loaded, it demands immediate evacuation when maximum capacity has been reached. So basically my rectum is a pack rat, often going for up to a week before making any attempt to part with the turd its been hugging so gingerly. Maybe it's just lonely and wants the company?
Anyway, even though the colon and I have complete polar personalities, we generally live well together. Normally I would spend about fifteen minutes every day on the toilet, coaxing my timid vacuole to come clean, confess all its sins in the form of a lovely poop to be flushed away and forever forgotten. But it is stubborn, and so am I. Usually this stand-off would end with me defeated and the colon seemingly unaware of any attempt at all.
When I was fifteen, I moved in with my father. His house was old, with walls so thin even the slightest fart could permeate to the neighbors' yard in a matter of seconds. There was one bathroom, right in the center of the house, with our rooms on either side. The distance from the bathroom to any other point in the house never exceeded about sixty feet. This house was SMALL. When you shat, someone sitting on the roof would know it.
As misfortune would have it, I am a Shameful Shitter. Not because I spend fifteen minutes every day trying to win my colon's affection, but because when it DOES decide to evacuate, it follows the "go big or don't go at all" mentality. To put it bluntly, I give birth every time I shit.
My colon is an artist. It produces monumental structures that would make Michelangelo's David shake with fear. If a rock at Stonehenge ever crumbled, I could replace it with just one of these logs and no one would know the better. Sometimes they're really long, other times they've got the girth of an ostrich egg. Either way, they're huge. And I would be proud of them, if only they didn't cause so much trouble.
Sometimes, while I'm in mid-shit, the turd is hanging vertically and it touches the bottom of the toilet -- but it's only halfway out. So I have to elevate a few inches so the log isn't being inhibited by the toilet bottom. If I don't, the poop will remain halfway inside of me, just sitting there in suspended animation. There's nothing quite like the feeling of being mid-shit and having the turd just stop, as if it's rethinking its exit from the cozy womb that is my colon.
Once successfully discharged, I encounter a problem. How am I going to flush this mammoth down? The thing itself is probably twice the width of the toilet's plumbing, and smelling like a water buffalo's taint. Not to mention that my heavily-dilated anus is whimpering with pain.
Normally, I would find something to break it up with. A chopstick, pencil, plunger -- really, anything that could dice up the poop to reasonably sized little turdlettes. But once I moved to my father's house, this process was no longer a private ceremony between me and my bowels. The sound alone of my crap dropping into the toilet wasn't a normal splash, but more like a loud thud -- a sound normally heard when one drops a cinderblock onto concrete from the roof. Breaking up the foul beast could be done quietly, but there was always the possibility it wouldn't flush and I would need to plunge. Normally unclogging a toilet is a must every now and then, but how could I, a Shameful Shitter, be heard plunging every time I crapped?
I couldn't blame it on old plumbing, since my dad proudly installed a new commode shortly before I moved in, proudly claiming it could handle anything. The embarrassment of me -- a one-hundred-and-ten pound kid -- out-shitting my father was just too mortifying.
So one night, as he was sitting in the living room, about twenty feet from the bathroom, I was doing something in my bedroom when suddenly I felt a tingling pressure, and the continents started to divide. The beast had been awakened and was starting to depart -- quickly. I took the three strides it takes to get to the bathroom, and plopped down on the throne, content with the relief I would be feeling in a few minutes. But the feeling turned to dread when I realized this wasn't going to be just a normal big shit. This was going to be a goliath, a hulking yeti pumped with steroids.
Then I remembered I had forgotten to grab something to break it up. My heart started pounding. With each beat, the beast threatened ejection. Thinking quickly, I leaned forward and turned the shower on to mask any noises (and also to get it nice and warm so when I was done I could feel both empty and clean). I looked around for tools as my anus started to widen. And then I saw it. The dental floss. This was going to be the most creative and shameful idea I had ever conceived.
What I did next, I'll explain very bluntly, because there's no other way to do it. I spread my legs wide and grabbed about a foot of floss. I took the floss and made a loop, holding an end in each hand. As the turd started to emerge, I positioned the loop around the turd and pulled, cleanly slicing the salami into thin disks. It took all of my physical and mental willpower to keep from pushing, so I could ease the beast out slowly and cut it up evenly.
The whole time I was thinking about an episode on the Discovery Channel, and how marine scientists were removing tumors from sea turtles by looping fishing line around the growth and pulling the line until the tumor fell off. I wondered to myself if I could make a living doing that, since I was clearly highly skilled at such a task.
When I was done, I looked down and admired my evenly sliced crap. I realized I could probably get a job in a deli slicing lunchmeat, if the turtle thing didn't work out.
I wrapped the foul floss in toilet paper and threw it in the wastebasket, and then I flushed. The turd disks whizzed around the bowl in a frenzy, dancing in a big circle before scampering down the hole. And it was all over, just like that.
I jumped in the shower and felt tremendously refreshed. I tried to ignore the fact of what I had just done, tried to deny that I just diced up my crap with dental floss. It sounded like something a psychopath would do -- a psychopath who used to be a highly creative Boy Scout, at least. But it was over, and since then I have never used this method again.
I wouldn't recommend it to anyone -- it's difficult, disgusting, and there's a very likelihood you'll end up shitting on your hands while trying to slice the crap. But when nature calls, only the Shameless -- or creative -- survive!
