Years ago, it was nothing for me to stay out all night drinking, closing down the bar, stopping for a greasy breakfast, crashing, and then rising the next day with a splitting headache as I headed to work after a strong cup or two of java. Usually I'd stop off at a fast food restaurant around lunch, order the daily grease burger, head home, eat the crap they pass off as food, and hit the head. It was a daily ritual. Depending on what my previous night consisted of in terms of nourishment, my lunchtime drop could be something that looked like rotten chocolate milk, brown stalks of broccoli, a 3/4-inch copper pipe, or, if I was really constipated, petrified wood.

Those were the worst. I'd have to slowly struggle to wrestle those out of my shit bladder, otherwise I'd tear up my exit wound. Sometimes I'd be so clogged up it would take the practiced maneuver of letting a mouse head peek out, suck it back in, and repeat until the rodent was ready to run. Still, I'd end up a little bit bloody. But I didn't mind... as long as I'm doing the deed in my own shit bunker, I could take my time, stink and dirty the place as much as I wanted, and then head back to work three-to-five pounds lighter.

You see, I can piss anywhere: in a phone booth (back when they existed), into a raging bonfire, or off the back of a moving pick-up truck. But when it comes to shitting, I have to crap at home in the luxury of my bright, white, well-lit and well-ventilated bathroom.

My lifestyle has changed over the years. Today I watch the Food Channel, cook healthy meals at home, and I haven't been to a fast food restaurant in over three years except to get a cup of coffee and/or use the facilities. I still continue with my daily shit ritual, only they are a lot healthier now.

But... I recently lost my job... so my day consists of trying to find a new one. And at night, I've been drinking a lot of beer. Cheap beer. It's all I can afford now. So after I pound a few Natty Lites, I get this ungodly urge to eat, so I'll cook a frozen pizza and eat the whole damn thing, and then eat half a bag of pretzels and sometimes a half-gallon of ice cream. I'm not kidding. I'm not some big slob. I'm six feet tall, 160 pounds, I work out religiously, and I run in marathons. But when I have free time, I can eat and drink.

This past weekend, my daily shit failed to realize any massive results. I'm used to a three-to-five pound mound a day. Friday's noontime shit weighed maybe an ounce. No big deal, I thought. I sometimes have smaller dumps and make up for it the next day.

Saturday comes. Another miniature turd. I mean, this sucker was baby-sized. Considering I drank at least twelve on Friday night and consumed all this junk food, you would have thought it would have been more. Saturday I not only drank another fifteen beers, but I consumed at least four hot dogs at lunch, and then a couple of grilled double cheeseburgers and some microwave popcorn and burritos while watching Saturday Night Live.

I slept in on Sunday morning, got up around eleven, took two fiber pills, ate bran flakes, and had a half-pot of coffee. I wanted to make sure I took a monstrous shit before my shower -- I was going to visit a girlfriend of mine and didn't want to have to use her little apartment shitter.

Just before my shower, I sat on the porcelain chair and tried to completely void my shit bladder, but all I had was this little two-ounce turd. Now come ON! I must have gut filled with toxic waste, but it ain't coming out. Funny thing: when I wiped, there was more on the Charmin than in the bowl.

I tried to sit down and force the situation, but no go. So I took my shower, dressed, and headed over to Barb's for an afternoon visit. She lives about thirty miles away.

Now, the whole while I was driving there, I knew I had this shit-stuffed gut, but I didn't have an urge to go. At Barb's we watched some TV, took a walk, drank some wine -- and then the urge hit me. I needed to go, but there was absolutely no way I was going to use her personal john. Don't get me wrong -- it is well kept, well stocked, and even has an exhaust fan. But when it comes to shitting... I mean, I can piss anywhere: on a kid's sandcastle at the beach, on an active beehive, or in the sink at a crowded stadium bathroom. But when it comes to number two, I only shit at home.

I told her I had to get home, but needed to stop at a grocery store for some items. She told me where a small neighborhood Sav-A-Lot was located. She said the area was not bad and the prices were reasonable and I'd be able to get in and out a lot quicker than those big mega-stores. I drove away quickly, realizing that I was not going to be able to stop at the grocery store and make the thirty-mile trek back to my house to unleash the big brown chuck roast. I figured I'd have to use the shitter at the grocery store.

Oh, how I dreaded that! But what were my choices?

I found this store in a slightly ghetto area. Broken glass all over the parking lot, shopping carts in disarray, and garbage strewn about. But I didn't care -- I just needed some cooking oil, pasta, and frozen garlic bread. The store was very vacant of customers, the aisles were dimly lit, but all I cared about was taking a shit. I mean, at this point I could give a damn about cooking oil. The only oil I cared about was the field of crude bubbling between my cheeks.

Quickly I looked for the public restrooms. Nowhere were they to be found. I couldn't believe it. But I was too embarrassed to ask.

Then I spotted a sign on an employee's doorway. I quickly pushed my way to the stock area and saw what looked like the employee break room. It was sooooo filthy...

I found the emblem that designated the men's room and hastily entered. Oh MY fucking god! I thought the break room was filthy -- this bathroom reeked worse than a landfill. Figure the stench month-old piss in a baby's diaper. The tile floor was black and one of the stalls had the dreaded "out of order" sign.

The good thing was, I was the only one in this sewer pit of a washroom. After entering the stall, I noticed there was no cover on the tank, and the seat was down, and the last asshole who used it pissed all over the seat and floor. Damn... but my choices were limited. At this very moment I had enough G-forces to built up in my ass cavity to power an atomic reactor.

Thank god there was toilet paper. I quickly grabbed a few pieces and wiped down the seat, and then took even more and made a three-layer-thick pad. I pulled down my Wranglers, hit the seat, and let loose.

The sound was similar to that of silicone exiting out of a caulk gun. Non-stop. And the stink -- oh my god. I thought the stench of this devil's asshole of a bathroom was bad, but it was overpowered by my three-day tar pile.

After I got off the seat, I looked down: it was a perfect three-layer coil. Unbroken. I have never done anything that artful in my life. Of course, more than half of it was above water level.

Now, what I normally do when I let go of a load that would overflow in the horn of plenty is flush the evidence, wipe my ass, toss the used Green Bay product in, and flush again. But I wasn't about to take the chance of this three-ringer overflowing the facility. So I grabbed about fifty sheets of the white institutional offering and got working on my bunghole. I bet there was a half-pound of peanut butter on that first try.

So I grabbed more paper and continued. I did it about three times, and still it didn't come out clean. So the next batch of asswipe, I balled it up, stuck it into the back of the toilet tank to get it wet, and did a wet sponge on my sphincter. Finally I dried with another bundle.

All said and done, I probably used as much toilet paper as a family of four in an impoverished nation uses in a year. The toilet was FULL.

I have never unintentionally filled a toilet to that extreme. Without weighing, I bet there was at least ten pounds of shit and another pound of paper. At that point, I whipped up my pants and got out of there. There was NO WAY I was going to flush that monstrosity.

I went to wash my hands only to find no soap. I wetted them, dried them in the dryer, and got the hell out. There was no way I was going to buy anything edible at a place that had a bathroom that disgusting.