As my name hints, I am a truck driver. And as such, I have not only witnessed horrific events, but have been a contributor. My handle or nickname is "Bear" for many reasons, including my size and my body hair, but also the size and placement of my deuce. My most impressive mass exited me after a day of gluttony that could be equaled only by a herd of mastodons.

It started with a four-plate journey to the truck stop breakfast buffet. I consumed eggs, bacon, sausage patties and spicy links, French toast, and hash browns soaked in sausage gravy and topped with plenty of Red Hot hot sauce. For most humans, this would be enough to send them to the porcelain -- but not a seasoned dropper like me. Before I hit the road, I also filled my forty-two ounce Thermos with some black tar.

A few hundred miles later I was ready for lunch, with still no signs of release. I opted for some fast food to help the stew mingle: a four-piece spicy fried chicken dinner from Popeye's with an extra large serving of red beans and rice, of course with Cajun seasoning. Back on the road, I started to feel the breakfast solidify inside of me. With a simple cock of my left leg, I trigged an evacuation of gas so foul that my seat sizzled and the windows fogged. Knowing that within the next few hours she'd be coming around the mountain, I started to plan for my slurry.

The next two hundred miles were zen-like. It was as if I had a spiritual connection with my soon-to-be-free load. I finally decided to find a truck stop when the chicken hit the breakfast -- because when nature calls, the Bear roars!

When I stood from my rig, I knew the time was approaching. My load shifted and began the final lower intestinal descent. But no -- I would not part with my creation just yet. First, I ate dinner. It was pretty modest: a rack of baby back ribs, fries, and corn on the cob.

I purchased a shower and made my way to private venue that I was about violate. Now on deck, I removed my clothes for the shower and prepared for departure. I was assuming that, due to my lack of gas during the ride, I would make up for it now.

Before my shower, I took my seat and said farewell to the toxic mush. With a deep breath and slight push I came to my alesium as the formerly-clean receptacle accepted my gift and became my whore. In a matter of fifteen silent seconds I had worked out enough slop to rise several inches above the water. So proud I was, like a father and a child both. My mix no longer had any shape, but only the look of a soft serve ice cream machine gone haywire. A true million wiper plus a shower was in order for a three-flush cesspool that almost brought Rome to her knees.