We stopped off at Burger King and I ordered my usual: chicken tenders, fries, Coke, and apple pie (YUM!). We scarfed our food down and resumed our mall patrol. About ten minutes later, though, I felt the gastro-avalanche start to rumble, as if the delicate balance needed to keep everything in place had suddenly gone out of whack. Often, when you have to make fudge out of the house, you can keep it under control and go on with your business until such time as an acceptable crapper becomes available. This time, though, I knew I was in trouble. I knew I wouldn't be able to hold it in for even five minutes, forget waiting to get home.
I needed a bathroom.
Unfortunately, we happened to be shopping at the mall built for people without bladders or rectums, so there were no public pissoirs. I was too embarrassed to tell my friend what I was experiencing, though he could tell by my pallid, sweat-soaked face that something was awry. I analyzed the floor plan of the mall in my head, wondering where a men's room could be tucked away. I finally realized that the only john was the one at Burger King. So, back we went.
On the way there, I thought I'd relieve some of the pressure, so I let the guards know it was okay to allow a little fart slip through -- but my guards promptly threw down their weapons and took off completely. Before I knew it, a huge wet load of chocolate pudding had landed in my drawers. Goddamn f---ing hell!!! This cannot be happening! I was sure an enormous splotch of foul seepage was blooming on the seat of my jeans. I didn't say anything to my friend. I just doubled our pace and prayed I wouldn't feel it running down my legs.
We got to BK and I ran downstairs to the men's room. Alas, there was a line. I was number six to take care of my number two. I stood patiently, trying to act cool, like I didn't have a pound of bowel cakes steaming in my pants. Why won't these people hurry up?! What's taking them so long?! There was only one stall and it was occupied by a man who cracked the door open and waved for me to come over. He, however, was being watched by another man who looked like Secret Service or FBI, and I didn't want to get involved in any intrigue or espionage with a load of shit taking up all my trunk space, so I declined his offer. He finally left the stall. The fed escorted him out. Another man took his place on the crapper.
And so it went until it was my turn. I stepped inside and dropped my jeans, expecting to see a mess of Bosco all over everything. As it turned out, my Hanes seemed to be acting like diapers, and all I had to do was remove my undies. I stepped out of them, worrying that the other men could see my shame under the stall. I deposited the soiled undergarment behind the toilet and went to wipe... no butt paper. The humiliation was complete! I pulled up my pants, held my head high, and strode out of the men's room.
I met my friend upstairs. "You were down there an hour. We're late. My mother's going to be pissed." We ran to the rendezvous, a lightness in my step I never thought I'd feel again. All the way home, I worried that my encrusted butt was giving off fumes and that I might stain the luxurious white interior of the new Jag; but no one seemed to notice. I took a shower as soon as I got home and put on some clean underwear. No one ever knew my secret until now.
-- Fuzzy Puppy