Editor's note: Iberian Crapper apologizes that English "ain't my mother tongue." Since I'm already impressed by his use of the colloquial, I don't think it'll be a problem.
It all happened last summer. I went with my mate over to China to visit a friend working in Shanghai and to tour around China's sights. After a couple of days of enjoying plenty of meat skewers from street vendors, liberally sprinkled with hot chili powder, and after mistakenly drinking a pint of water from a public fountain, I soon got acquainted with Montezuma's (or should I rather say Confucius'?) Revenge. However, it was nothing serious, and I was always able to hold it back until reaching my friend's toilet. Man, was it a relief to shoot out a generous dose of asshole-scorching brown matter while overlooking Shanghai's world-famous skyline.
On the second week of our trip, however, things would look much different. We hit Beijing. One night, one of my mate's acquaintances, who worked for a Spanish bank in Beijing, was supposed to take us out for dinner. However, work constraints forced him to cancel our appointment, so my friend and me were stranded in the middle of Sanlitun, Beijing's tourist trap district. Hungry after a long day of sightseeing, and not wanting to get ripped off in any of the crappy westernized restaurants around the area, we decided to call it a day and settle for a dozen or so spicy meat skewers. As I was to realize later, that wasn't a really good idea.
Still unaware of the events yet to unfold, I decided to go into a Mexican-themed tourist trap watering hole and have some beers. In the bar we bumped into this Swiss guy who was there eating some burritos on his own. He was an extremely wealthy kid who was living the life of a playboy with Daddy's money, the owner of a quite famous private bank from Switzerland. He'd been in Beijing for two months and stayed in a swanky penthouse owned by one of his father's mates. Having no better plans, we accepted the kid's invitation and joined him for a night out in town. After emptying some bottles at his place, we embarked ourselves on a bar tour around Beijing's ritziest clubs.
Hours later, I was having fun in one of the supper clubs when the skewers sought revenge. I tried to resist, but a look at my watch made me realize the futility of my intentions: we still had three or four hours of clubbing to go. I had to pay a visit to the loo no matter what.
I excused myself and went to the club's toilet. It was half the size of my flat and, I dare say, much cleaner. A smily Chinese guy welcomed me in.
I opened the door of one of the futuristic-looking stalls (the club was decorated as a kind of spaceship or something) and was struck with surprise. Despite the club being up to any European nightlife venue I had ever been in my life, they only had traditional Chinese squat toilets. I'd never been on one of those; and needless to say, I had never been on one of those after having five or six gin and tonics. I imagined everything going wrong and having to walk covered in shit around China's trendiest club. But I had to do the dirty deed.
I squatted, tried to forget all the loud techno noise coming from the dance floor, aimed, and let it go. A disgusting flush of foul semi-liquid shit shot out of my dunghole and through the air, landing in the middle of the stall, about six inches or so from the hole where it was meant to go. I pictured my asshole and crack hair to be smeared with shit and started to clean with great precaution -- I was wearing a shirt with French cuffs and a blazer, not exactly the most appropriate attire for such endeavor. I'd gotten real lucky -- and despite the mess that lied around the stall's floor, my anal region had stayed surprisingly unspoiled, so a couple of swipes sufficed.
I carefully closed the spaceship-looking stall and, feeling remorseful for my unwanted and accidental turd terrorism, gave the smily Chinese guy a tip amounting to his weekly wage or so. Then I hastily left the crime scene and rejoined my new billionaire friend and the gorgeous-looking Chinese socialites he'd chatted up while I was on the toilet.
It seemed to me that I couldn't be luckier. I ordered a fresh gin and tonic, forgot my squat-toilet deflowering, and gave in into Beijing's nightlife pleasures.
If I only had known what was yet to come! At five AM or so, after having toured four different clubs around town, my mate and me finally made it to our hostel. Before going to bed, the skewers reawakened, making me feel the urge to take a crap again. Wearing nothing but my underwear, I proceeded to the communal toilets, quickly but not hastily.
All lights were switched off and only moonlight brightened the scene. Tired and numbed by all the drinks I had during our bar crawl, I stumbled through the pagodas that made up the hostel complex. I was less than a yard away from the toilet when I decided to indulge in a little fart. A huge bloop of brown goo fell on the floor through my loose boxer shorts, also smearing them.
I ripped the label off the undies (so nobody could trace them to the hotel's only Spaniards), threw them into the trashcan, washed myself, and, fully naked, silently cleared the scene of my second go at turd terrorism in a single night.
Days later, our vacation ended and we flew back to Europe. At the airport police checkout, the Chinese policewoman investigated my passport and visa longer than usual. When she finally handed my documents back to me and wished me a pleasant flight, I was relieved. For some seconds, I'd imagined what it'd be like to serve a lifetime for turd terrorism, however unintentional, in a Chinese jail and, uh... go back to a squat stall again.
