I come from a family of shitters and farters. In my family, it's almost a religion. In our youth, my brother and I would bet on things; instead of betting money, the loser would have to read to the other guy while he shat in the bathroom. We were that serious. I'd like to share one of my tales and hope it will serve as inspiration.

My wife and I were driving home from a fabulous dinner at her favorite restaurant. It was the dead of winter, silent, cold. We were halfway home when that familiar tugging in my stomach began -- the load was on its way and was not to be denied! I considered farting to buy a few more moments, but this was loose mutton... butt pee. I'd been in this situation before but this pile was angry and there was no negotiating. I knew I could wrestle with it for only a few minutes while I made plans for its dismissal. Making it home was not an option.

To my wife's horror, I blazed into the parking lot of the local high school, eyeing an unsuspecting snow bank that looked suitable for the assault that was about to occur. I feverishly began digging in the snow like a mad dog. With no time to spare, I ripped down my pants, closed my eyes and blasted my liquid loaf into the snow bank.

Shock & Awe.

My wife claims I disappeared in the steam, and all she could hear was me muttering with pleasure. As my swollen manhole sputtered, I realized I had nothing to wipe with. I thought about my grandpa and father and wondered what they would have done. It then became clear. I stood up, took off my sweater and used my favorite DePaul t-shirt underneath to clean off the filth. With tears in my eyes, I buried the tee shirt and went home.

I would pass the spot almost every day, and in the early spring I could see my beloved tee shirt lying in the grass. Weeks went by and it remained undisturbed. Finally, I retrieved my shirt, washed it, and went on to wear it until it died of natural causes.

-- Mudd [1]