my father [1]. The old man just turned seventy, and ever since he retired he refuses to leave the house before noon. And before he continues with his day, he must make sure his bowels are fully evacuated, a task which sometimes takes up to five trips to the can. These days, I am getting to be the same way. In the past, for example, if I had to start work at eight, I would get up at seven, shit quick, shower quick, and depart. Now I need to get up at least two to three hours before any appointment in the morning because I need three or four trips to the porcelain throne in order to feel completely emptied out.
On Thursday, I promised my daughter that we would get up bright and early on Friday morning and go fishing at Lake Erie. Come Friday morning I got up at 6:30 and went straight for the shitter, but I could only squeeze out a few lame marbles. Disappointed, I jumped in the shower. After I got dressed, my daughter woke up raring to go fishing. By now it was seven o'clock; and after drinking a can of Coke, my bowels rumbled with that wonderful feeling I was looking for. I again sat on the pot and this time I happily squeezed out a healthy-sized movement that looked like chocolate soft serve ice cream.
Still, even after this procedure I wasn't yet sporting a satisfied feeling; but we just packed up our fishing gear and headed out to Huntington Beach. On the way there we decided we would stop at a McDonald's to get a nice greasy breakfast to start our day. I figured we would visit the one near Huntington Beach, located in the posh suburb of Westlake -- usually the food, service, and facilities are superior in the better communities.
Well, times have changed. The service at this McDonald's was slow (hardly anyone spoke English), the food sucked, and the place was filthy. After ingesting my runny eggs, a hash brown saturated in oil, and something that was passed off as sausage, I felt like a time bomb was going to explode in my midsection. It seemed like a trip to the good old McDonald's lavatory was in order.
Thankfully the dining room area was nearly deserted, which meant I could anticipate some alone time in the restroom. But the men's room didn't look like much resting had been going on -- it looked like it had been vandalized. The sinks and countertops were splattered with dirty water, as if some greasy mechanic or homeless bum had used the area to bathe. Dirty paper towels were laying everywhere.
I headed for the lone stall, looked over the very low door, and noticed it was a disaster: toilet paper all over the dirty floor and in the toilet, and the seat stained with piss and skidmarks.
I had no choice. I needed to unload. So I entered, dropped my drawers, and hovered over the bowl to do my business.
Well, the older and more out-of-shape I get, the harder hovering over a toilet bowl has become, especially without using my arms to hold up my body. But I needed my arms to hold up my pants so they wouldn't touch the urine-soaked floor.
To make matters even worse, my colon was being shy and having performance anxiety. I was worried that some dickhead was going to walk in and look over the stall door like I did.
Finally, after a minute or so, a turd slipped out of my bunghole to get the ball rolling. But my back and legs were killing me from suspending my ass over the pot. I stood up, took a deep breath, and pushed some more; and as soon as round two was ready to discharge I squatted and released. I then stood up again, waiting for the next bomb to reach the chamber. Soon after, the third hunk of fecal matter exited my asshole, and I decided I was finished.
I reached for the see-through rough-as-hell-rip-every-second-when-you-try-to-tear-it-off-the-spool toilet paper. After gathering up a fistful, I reached back for a wipe. As I started to wipe my poop chute with the paper I discovered a big, wet, slimy mess back there. It appeared that all of my standing and squatting over and over again squished poop all up and down my ass crack.
The pain in my back, neck, legs, and arms was getting worse the longer I had to keep bending over to fumble with the difficult toilet paper dispenser, and then reaching back in this weird, contorted half-squat (to keep my pants from touching the floor) in order to wipe my ass. It took at least fifteen swipes before I felt clean enough not to have a dreaded case of itchy asscrack all day.
I stood up straight and pulled my pants up when a sharp pain shot through my shoulder blade. My back and legs were throbbing in pain. I just laughed as I looked into the toilet bowl filled to the top with toilet paper and my poop. I decided not to flush and just leave a gift for the slacking McDonald's staff who couldn't provide a clean toilet for a paying customer.
The pain in my back got worse as the day went on. Today my neck is now stiff and my shoulder hurts. And after all that, we didn't even catch one fish.
