Let me explain.
To help you understand my name, I must tell you that I am a radical believer in Jesus Christ. I say radical not to brag, but by way of explanation. For the last ten years or so, I have practiced a discipline that's not very popular in the Christian faith: fasting.
Fasting is the voluntary abstinence from food used primarily in the seeking of a spiritual consciousness, or higher power. I am happy to say that my pursuit of spiritual power has been successful, but that's not the point I want to make. The point I want to make is that the seeking of God through severe physical trials -- like extended fasting -- does not come without its share of unbelievable poop stories.
Now, you might wonder how the lack of intake could make an interesting poop story, but you'd be surprised. I'll start by telling you of my "Fasting for Jesus" poop adventures, beginning with the first ridiculously extended fast I did.
In The Beginning
When I started my discipline of fasting, I took my time and skipped a meal or two here and there. No affect whatsoever on my poo -- I may have just delayed my normal shitting routine by a couple hours or so. Then I moved on to missing a whole day, and then to three days worth of meals. I will say that after two days of not eating anything, I stopped pooping solid material; and on day three, the consistency became like a frothy milkshake, with banana chunks.
The next goal I had was ten days, and then fourteen days. After this time, things started to get interesting every time I had to go the bathroom.
This buildup in of my fasting ability took place over about eight months. I had some memorable moments during these periods, but nothing could prepare me for my first Forty Day Fast.
Forty Days And Forty Nights
Now, forty days is an obscene amount of time to go without food; but after reading my Bible, I determined that if Jesus could do it, then so could I. I read some books on the subject, made my plans, set a date, and stopped eating. All that I had was diluted juices and water.
Days 1-4
Nothing interesting happened during this time, except maybe that the consistency of my poo became as I described above ... a milkshake, with bananas.
Day 5
I have to take a moment and define the word 'shart.' A shart is when you attempt a fart and -- how shall I say it -- you get more than you bargained for. Instead of only a fart, you 'draw mud,' or shit yourself. Farting is especially dangerous when fasting. Which I learned -- the hard way.
I began day five of my forty day fast with an early morning prayer meeting, accompanied by a friend who was also fasting. My stomach was gurgling and making strange noises to be sure, but all was well; I was in control. We were praying right along when I guess I got excited. With all the passion inside me, I poured out my heart to God in supplication. I was sitting on the ground with my legs crossed when I leaned forward to get up. I completely miscalculated the bowel control that I possessed because when I leaned, a high-pitched squeaky fart sounded, and the entire contents of my colon came spewing out into my shorts. I sharted. Dark, almost black chocolate shit sauce fired out of my semi-puckered colon. Instantly I went from spiritual bliss to a shitty mess.
My buddy saw and heard the whole thing. I quickly stood up to survey the damage; and when I did, all he could do was laugh his ass off. I have never seen someone come unglued so quickly. Our pious exercise quickly degenerated into a locker room scene. Here I was, standing in his study, shit running down my leg, and he was literally falling off the couch where he was sitting onto the floor, laughing hysterically. The smell was awful -- like a freshly carved pumpkin and gym socks. Nauseating, really; I believe that remnants of shit that had hibernated for years made their entrance that day.
I had to waddle to the bathroom with a hand on my shorts to keep the chocolate sauce from running onto the beige carpet. I asked for a couple of towels and his wife had to bring them because he was rolling on the floor laughing at me. My underwear was beyond repair, so I threw them in the trash. It took about thirty minutes, but I finally cleaned up and went home commando -- shaken, but resolute in my quest for spiritual power.
Days 6-7
Nothing to report. I mean literally nothing. No movement, no farts. Nada.
Day 8
It was mid-morning. I was sitting in my room, reading my Bible and meditating on eternal things. I had just taken all of the sheets off of my bed to have them washed (something I try to do every week). I was just sitting there, engrossed in what I was reading, when I subconsciously lifted a cheek and let out a fart.
I swear I wasn't thinking. I'm a guy; this is just what we do. Many years of farting have conditioned me to not think about a fart. When I feel one coming, I push and lift a cheek to get the proper relief and maximum amplification. If I'm lucky (which I rarely am), I get to savor the aroma.
Not this time. Nothing good and holy came out of my ass on this fateful day. No, like a freight train running over Helen Keller, I was caught completely off guard. My anus spewed death on my mattress. Pure death. I literally got shit INTO the mattress.
Into the inner workings of the mattress did shit enter.
I was shocked, confused, and bewildered. It was the smell that got me. I don't know how to describe the odor... It was base, earthy, with a hint of musk. Almost hormonal.
The inner workings of my large and small intestine lay there on the bed. On the place where I slept every night. The mattress acted like a coffee filter -- only the liquid passed into the mattress; what was lying on top resembled chocolate shavings like on a piece of cake you would get at a fine restaurant.
The mattress surface wasn't that wet, either, which I thought was odd. Only a brown stain about the size of a half-dollar. I surmised that because I passed the liquishit with such force that it didn't have time to adhere to the mattress cover. I'm no physicist, but I bet this could be explained on the molecular level.
Anyway, I surveyed the damage and began the messy cleanup. This required another pair of underwear, taking a shower, wiping the mattress, and then scrubbing it and leaving it to dry in front of a fan.
I retired for the afternoon.
Day 9
Road Trip! My buddy and I got in the car to attend a couple of religious meetings about seven hours from our home. The plan was simple: drive down during the day, attend an evening meeting, check into a hotel, stay the night, attend meetings the following day, and drive home after the evening service. All in all, about a thirty-six hour trip. It was going to be such a short trip that I decided to only take one pair of jeans, a change of underwear, a shirt and a few personal effects.
Bad idea.
Drinking large amounts of water on such a long road trip means frequent stops to piss. We were having a good time, laughing about my other poo stories, when we decided to stop on the side of the road to take a piss. We pulled off the interstate and walked to a tree cover about thirty feet off the road. Cars were whizzing by but what did we care? We were guys. We could piss in a minute or two and move on before anyone could complain.
My buddy went to one tree and I went to another, about twenty feet away. As I was taking a leak, I felt a familiar pressure inside my ass. This was the old "let out a fart while you piss" pressure that I had experienced a hundred times before. I did a quick double take, remembering the events of the last couple days, and made a conscious decision to fart -- but this time with great reserve. I didn't push, I didn't grunt or strain, I just let nature take its course.
And take its course it did.
Without the force or aplomb of the other shits, watery light brown shit water just ran out of my asshole. Once it started, I lost control. It was like a faucet without a knob. I was yet again at the mercy of my bowels. No force, just wetness. No fart, not even a sound -- just nasty, shitty wetness, accompanied by the horrific musk-like stench.
I was defeated. My ass won the war. I almost started crying. I finish peeing and started back towards the truck. My buddy had finished urinating before I did and beat me back. I opened the door, looked him in the eye, and sheepishly said, "I shit myself."
"What?!" He exclaimed. "Again!?"
"Yup, again." I answered. I asked him to take me to the nearest gas station so I could clean up.
We started out on the highway, but I had to literally hover off the seat so as to not get shit on his nice upholstered seats. The smell was terrible. Even with the windows rolled down, there was no escape. And we just happened to be in the one stretch of road without an exit for fifteen miles or so.
We got off at the next exit and found McDonalds. I waddled straight into the bathroom and left my buddy at the door to keep watch. I was going to have to get naked, and I didn't want anyone walking in.
The vile shit-water was everywhere. On my underwear, on my jeans, on my shirt; it had even run down my leg into the top of my socks. I stripped butt naked, right there in the bathroom.
I promptly threw away my underwear and socks -- they were hopeless. I decided to keep my shirt; I rinsed it out in the sink. I had no choice on my jeans. This was the one pair of pants that I had for the next thirty-two hours. I rinsed them out and tried to dry them with paper towels. I put on the underwear and shirt I had in my overnight bag, but what was I to do about these wet, shit-stained jeans? There was no smell remaining, but there was a VERY obvious shit stain right on my ass.
I put some paper towels between my new underwear and the jeans to absorb some of the moisture from the washing, but it didn't help much. So I untucked my shirt and went without socks. No problem.
We went to the meeting that night, where the preacher gave a blistering sermon that moved me to run to the altar area in front of the church and lie face down, repenting some random sin -- all the while completely forgetting about the shit stain on the back of my pants. It was only later that my buddy told me about going down to the altar and seeing me on my face, shit-stained jeans in the air. He lost it and almost had to be carried out by the ushers for disrupting the service.
So, if anyone was attending the Brownsville Revival in Pensacola, Florida, sometime in early 1995 and saw a guy at the altar with shit-stained drawers, that was me.
Days 10-22
Uneventful.
Day 23
Gross. That's all I could say about this day's movement. I had a slight pressure while working, so I went to the bathroom, sat down, and let loose the gates of hell. It felt like a normal diarrhea shit, but, being a standing wiper, I turned around to see what had come out that day.
Not good. Looking in the bowl, I saw a colorless, odorless bowl of snot. That's right, snot. I had shit mucus. Lots of it. It took about three wipes to get to skin. It was clear, like the first day of a bad cold, before the sinus infection sets in.
I cleaned up quickly, ran out of the bathroom, and got on the Internet to find out if I was ill or not. Turns out that your intestines are coated with mucus to help your poo move through the colon easily. (Am I right, Poonurse?) Nothing physically wrong, but I wear the emotional scars to this day.
Days 24-39
Uneventful. I had a couple more explosions, but they all occurred in the right environment -- namely, the toilet. I was master of my domain once again. I reclaimed the throne of my bowels and reigned as a sovereign over them.
Day 40
Over the course of my first forty day fast, I lost three pairs of underwear and two pairs of socks, and permanently stained my mattress. Oh, the price of spiritual power.