self-imposed digestive experiments [3] before, she asked no questions. Also lucky for me was her departure for the annual summer visit to Gramma's house the very next morning, so I wouldn't have to endure any serious ridicule from her and/or the kids. I would be batching it for the next two weeks.
I awoke at 11:20 PM with a dire realization: I didn't have enough poop to make eighteen inches. Estimating the volume and diameter of my colon and comparing that with the amount of food eaten (engineers can do this!), I figured I only had enough in the pipe for about eleven inches of dook. I quietly arose and went to the kitchen, where I gobbled down the leftover beans and rice. (And while the food was heating in the microwave, I ate twelve ounces of yogurt. That should slow things down.) Afterward, I ate a can of garbanzo beans and a couple spoons of peanut butter for good measure. If I ever pooped again, it would be a monster.
When morning came, I ate a double bowl of granola mixed with raw rolled oats. That should boost my scud out of its gooey silo. And my bum immediately sent up the let's-make-some-room-here signal; but I clamped down to try to consolidate my load. I kissed my soon-to-depart wife and kids goodbye and headed to work with a large bag of celery sticks. I ate the celery whenever I could eat without feeling like I was going to puke -- all that food I had crammed down in the last eighteen hours was making me sick. Couple that with a refusal to unload and the fast-moving fiber bearing down on a roadblock and you have severe digestive confusion.
I had no real lunch.
I must admit I was not confident. In all my thirty-five years I have produced only one big-long turd (and that's a story yet-to-come). Big MASSES of loose poop, yes. Big PILES of mini-turds, yes. But no monstrous loaves.
Hope springs eternal. Around three o'clock word came up that the dump was to begin. I grabbed the digital camera and shambled down the hall to the men's room. I think I felt a little like a young mother about to give birth to a super-genius must: trepidation, mixed with a noble anticipation of pride. I sat in the middle stall and prepared for launch.
I was immediately rocked by a giant toilet fart -- a convulsively violent pow! that echoed in the bathroom. I know one can't be lifted of the pot by a fart, but I nevertheless pictured myself being pitched headlong into the stall door, dazed, with my testicles blown clean off. It was that big. I braced for the big one, wondering what kind of lubrication would be required to push out an eighteen inch log all in one piece.
A bunch of hard, rancid nuggets rolled out of my blown-out can and fell plippity-ploppity into the water. Surely this was the prelude to my shining brown trophy...! Nope. I finished by pouring a large, pulpy load of mush into the crapper. My bung-hole must have been wide open for fifteen or twenty seconds during passage. The return of the rolled oats indicated that no more was to come.
I left defeated. No photograph, either.
Now. Did anybody else try this? I must know. My thinking is that we have one year to perfect the science. Input is needed. Stoolstice is a good idea; but if I can't participate, maybe next year I just shave my balls.
-- DungDaddy [4]
