I have many poop-related stories, most of them from my glorious days of revelry at a small tech school in Boston. Much of this revelry involved beer; this, of course, led to some absolutely epic destruction of our home toilets. My sophomore year, I lived in a large suite with two crappers and three rooms -- that's six dudes and two shitters. Frankly, that's usually enough to satisfy: 1-to-3 is a pretty good ratio. We even had maids to keep the place up for us. It was a grand place to dump.

The night before this incident, I had been drinking with my roommate, who plays an integral role in many of my parties. We used to DJ at a frat house. Well, he DJ'd, and I tended to pretend to DJ, carrying equipment, and tagging along to skip out on the five bucks I'd ordinarily have to pay to get to the keg and -- even more importantly -- to skip that keg line. Being a DJ rocks.

The downside of a keg party is that they always have cheap, shitty beer. After three or four, you stop noticing… until the next day.

That night I had at least eleven cups of beer. I usually don't mind puking -- I'm one of those boot and rally types, and it saves you the trouble of having to pass it out the other end in a much less pleasant form. But I didn't puke. The next day I woke up at around 11:00 for an 11:30 class with some vague, fuzzy memories of boobs and beer, and of a drunken stumble home through "slickery" Boston streets. (I coined that term that night after slipping on ice and nearly giving myself a concussion. It was an impressive fall.) So I showered, shaved, and hemmed and hawed over skipping class -- mainly because I hadn't taken that post-drinking shit, and that bothered me. Usually I wake up and completely evacuate my bowels. And I mean completely. I swear I've seen vital organs in the bowl.

Like a fool, I decided to go to class anyway. I couldn't afford to take another cut. The class was a thermodynamics lab -- all about gas and pressure and containment and so on. But that day I was getting an internal lesson on the subject. Ladies and gentleman, there were beershits brewing below that were on the scale of Greek tragedy. I sat and I squirmed, and my stomach made ominous noises. I was sure I could squeak out some farts to relieve some pressure and heat, and maybe give my poor colon a little bit more expansion room so as not to rupture it.

The first one was so small, after I'd lifted my right cheek to sneak it out it felt like nothing had happened. But then the smell hit.

Words alone simply cannot describe this small sampling of what was forthcoming. This was the worst fart I'd ever had -- and it was only the pace car. It was like someone had forced me next to a cow's ass while it expelled a patty. But it eased the agony... and I was the only one who had smelled it, so far.

I continued to hang out and sneak farts and try to take notes without thinking about the Bud bomb trying with increasing violence to rattle loose. A few of my fellow students began to notice how ripe the room smelled. I mentioned that it must be either the professor or maybe some esoteric odor from a senior's academic final project. Nobody bought it; and to my horror, the stench was getting worse. I usually claim my babies -- solid AND gas -- but not that day.

Finally, halfway through the two-hour lab, it seemed that things had quieted down and that I was going to finish the class without another shart. But I was sorely mistaken. It was right then that I had the longest, foulest fart I have ever experienced. It was silent but oh so deadly. It rushed out of my ass for at least six seconds; and then the stench hit.

If you've ever seen Disney's Fantasia, you'll know what I mean when I compare the first fart to the small demon and this one to the big demon. It was so bad -- so very bad -- that the prof stopped mid-lecture. He was far too polite to ask whose it was, but it slammed into him -- nay, into everyone -- like a bullet. And, with that, I was out of options, out of gas, and fully aware that whatever hell Anheuser Busch had wreaked on my innards would soon introduce itself to the world.

So I left class, muttering something about a study group or a meeting. I waddled back to my room, taking my time so as not to jiggle it any looser. I even took the elevator.

The resultant shit was enormous and sludgy. I felt like a Play-Doh Fun Factory. The dump itself took around ten minutes, and it was a draining experience. I took the rest of the day off and met my first dump's many brothers and sisters. Frankly, I don't remember much of the poops themselves, except that they all smelled as bad as that last fart, they came throughout the entire day, and they left my turd cutter sore.

That day, I swore off drinking. And for once, that resolution lasted... for an entire day.