Until that fateful morning, I hadn't taken a jammer in quite some time so I knew my jaunt to the bathroom would be interesting. When it was finally time, I was more than pleased to break the old Eastern Carolina record of 20".
This was one of those deuces where I should've taken a picture for posterity or at least gathered dudes around to partake in my proud accomplishments -- we're talking the length of Manute Bol's arm here. But I did not think Kelly, her mom, or her sister were not the show-and-smell type, so I had to content myself with a mental snapshot as an internal ego boost.
Being an experienced shitter, this left me with quite a dilemma. Here I am, at my fiancé's home, with her mother and sister downstairs, and I have this tremendous log sticking out of the toilet. I decide to take the conservative approach: flush once... wipe... flush again.
Phase I went well. Although it left skid marks Dale Earnhardt would have been proud of, the evidence was gone.
Phase II: the wiping. Without getting too graphic, this was the problematic part of the operation. It took a while to thoroughly complete the objective, and will take a greater part of the Mirwood Forest to compensate for all the toilet paper I needed. It was certainly a good thing I had been conservative with the flushing!
As I attempted the second flush, I realized there was a miscalculation in my strategy. The TP had done the fake out. It started to go down... only to come back in full force as the toilet water crept ominously close to the top of the bowl.
I was not pleased. I started to worry. But I did not panic. I thought that the toilet was just digesting my schlumpf and would need some time to recuperate. Thus, I took a shower, planning to re-attempt Phase II in about fifteen minutes. After drying off, I flushed again -- to no avail. The process repeated itself three times. Flush and watch as the water test the upper limits of the bowl before its return to normalcy.
Now I was worried. I needed the plunger. Like a U.S. commando, I stealthily checked everywhere in the house, only to learn that the plunger was in Kelly's mom's bathroom. Kelly would have to ask her mom for it. I was big time embarrassed at this point. I was out of the closet -- Kelly's parents would now know I was a Shitter. The mom gave me an awkward smile as she handed me the plunger.
I climbed back upstairs and went to work like a Mario Brother. After five minutes of plunging and sucking the Jaws of Life up and down the toilet bowl, I gave up. I then made the biggest mistake of my life -- I told Kelly's mom I couldn't unclog the toilet. She said, "Let me help."
There was nothing good that could come out of this, but I gave in. She came upstairs, took the plunger, and went to work. You have to picture a nice, petite Southern lady going to town on the toilet -- one foot on the wall, another planted on the ground, pushing and pulling on the plunger with all her might.
She was so efficient that some of the original turd came back from the aforementioned schlumpf. It was like Lazarus rising from the dead -- my turd was alive and now what had been an embarrassing moment became a life-defining one for me. It couldn't get worse, could it?
After raising the Titanic, and the subsequent flushing attempt, Kelly's mom gave up as well. She raised the white flag and decided to wait until Kelly's father got home from work. Thank God I was leaving the house soon and wouldn't have to see his face when he learned of the kinds of dumps his soon-to-be son-in-law took.
I thought all was calm -- until I heard screams from downstairs. "Oh my God! Hunter! Come down here quickly!" I ran down to the mom's bedroom where she, Kelly, and the sister were all putting buckets all around the room. Dirty, shitty water was pouring (not dripping -- POURING) from the ceiling all over my new mom's bedroom -- all over the bed, all over the carpet, on top of pictures, everywhere.
We scrambled to get garbage cans and buckets to collect my feces while the mom and I ran back upstairs to the scene of the crime. The bowl had overflowed and we were up to our ankles in the shit water. It all felt so surreal -- until reality came crashing down as a piece of my turd hit my future mother-in-law in her ankle. Thirty minutes of mopping and collecting was enough to clean the bathroom. Someone turned the water off in the house, and eventually her bedroom stopped raining shit.
I left the house as soon as possible -- like OJ and AC busting out of Brentwood. I would not be there when the dad came home. Who knows if I'll ever be invited back?
-- Hunter