My colon seems to adhere to a strict schedule: once upon rising and once before bed. Well, the unholy Taco Bell butt burrito in this story decided to make its blessed journey into the world at work.

Fuck. I hate shitting at work. I almost never do it.

I must have been in the bathroom for forty-five minutes, straining, grunting, and bearing down like I was in the labor room, or at a Muscle Beach weightlifting competition. I was pondering if all this bearing down might cause a stroke; I wondered if my co-workers would find me stock-still on the floor of the bathroom, a turd half-in and half-out of my ass and my face frozen in a rictus of agony. Would they laugh before calling 911? You bet they would!

Ever try to put your fist in your mouth? This turd had a Chupacabran thirst for ass blood and eldritch intelligence.

I finally reached the conclusion that this turd was simply too big for my asshole and might have to be surgically removed; but I hadn't given up yet, so I tried to suck it back in for a try later on at home. Nope. It was stuck halfway.

So then I pondered on what to do. I didn't have any rubber gloves handy and I was NOT going to touch it with my hands because... I am a lady.

My new brother-in-law, Bill, told us a story over Thanksgiving dinner about when he was in the service and had the same problem, except his was due to chocolate milk. He was in a barracks bathroom that had no stalls and ended up yanking the stubborn "ass planet" out with his hand. Ewwwwww! Not me. If only I had some twine -- I could try and lasso it. Future Olympians could use it in the hammer throw.

Yes, I had already considered getting up, spinning furiously, and trying the rectal hammer throw with my butt cutlet; but we were one, locked in single combat.

As I sat, I pondered walking to my boss's office, hunched over with my pants around my ankles, and asking him to either assist me -- that, or let me go to Urgent Care and do you mind driving? He has a van.

I even tried grabbing both sides of my ass cheeks, pulling them apart, and bearing down. Apparently Lady Luck was busy in the next stall. This chunk of shit was holding me captive and I could not release the other chocolate hostages!

I also had flashbacks of this being Elvis' last performance; after all, his deathbed ended up being bathroom marble. We have linoleum at work. I was going to die on cheap linoleum!

I figured it was a befitting end, though. Me and my oversized butt gherkin in an eternal embrace. What would the mortician think? My final bow. Would they have to lay me on my side in the casket? Would I now become the poster girl for Ex-Lax? "Don't let this happen to you: take Ex-Lax!" accompanied by a picture of me, dead on the bathroom floor, with a behemoth chuck of boo-boo protruding from my butt. Would they erect a Ronald McDonald House for Constipated Kids in my honor?

On the other hand, if I did manage to pass it, would it leave my asshole in tatters? Would I exit the bathroom with my over-stretched, shredded, mucilaginous intestines slung over one shoulder like a lariat trailing the tattered remnants of my colon with a sanguinary torn assmeat tip -- like a colorectal bridal train? Would a co-worker provide a helping hand and carry the train? Would I even have the balls to ask? When it came out, would it give an audible pop like a champagne cork? Or would this be the fat man doing the cannonball into the pool? Maybe if I had some lubricant. Fuck... where am I going to find anal lubricant RIGHT NOW!?

Sigh. I just gave up and sat there. Waiting. Just like in the wild, wild, west of olden times. Me at one end of the lonely, tumbleweed-strewn, dusty, dirt road, and my cowboy hat-wearing turd at the other. An old-fashioned showdown with the theme from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly playing in the background. An ass off.

Then... I felt it. My ass infant moved. I began to squirm and shift side to side. I was The Little Engine That Could, chugging away... I think I can... I think I can... I know I can... I know I can... I KNOW --

And then it was over. No noise, no blood, no tearing asunder.

I wiped. Nothing.

I was alone.

So after all the labor pains, I felt a tug as I gave birth to my unholy ass suckling. There was no nurse or midwife to assist in the birth and whisk my butt bullion away and wrap him in swaddling clothes and pass out cigars, either.

Dead quiet.

No splash.

I was initially afraid to wipe, for fear of seeing a splash of blood and then a fetal reptile peering out -- the one that burst out of the thorax of John Hurt in Alien. I also didn't want to confirm the fact that I was probably hemorrhaging. I was scared.

But nothing turned up on the toilet paper.

So I got shakily to my feet, pulled up my pants, and turned and looked down to behold the most extraordinary, most fascinating piece of art deco poo craftsmanship ever. In appearance, it was like nothing I've ever seen: a tightly-convoluted coil of uniform brown. A brain made of poop is what it looked like. It seemed fashioned by Fabergéeacute; in the most exquisite detail I've ever seen in poop. I'd given birth to an ostrich-sized Fabergéeacute; egg!

I just stood there, agog, full of awestruck wonder. Enthralled, I wished for a stick to poke it, to see if it had the hardness of freshly-kilned earthen brown ceramicware.

But I just flushed my work of art. Who was I going to share it with?

How could my gastric juices and probiotic-filled intestines have fashioned this? Did I have little artistic Keebler Poop Elves working in my innards? I wanted to call The Mutter Museum to see if they were interested.

I have not consumed anything from Taco Bell since the birth, purely out of fear.

But I still refuse to carry personal lubricant on my person.