While these physical measurements hold a certain statutory merit, their real worth, of course, is that they suggest that I can take a pretty legit dump.
I've never considered this worth until a couple of weeks ago.
My dad had asked me to go to the local gas station to get some hamburger buns. At the time, I was taking my daily dump; this happens about mid evening every evening. I felt the need to preserve my Me Time, so I yelled out and said that I would go and get the hamburger buns after I had dropped the last turd.
As luck would have it, this wasn't a normal daily ritual dump; I ended up taking a pre-dump dump, or one that would have to get me by until I could return from the store. It felt like poop foreplay.
Why, you might ask, was the colon of such a large man so loaded? I’ll tell you why: The commercial food industry doesn’t play fair anymore. I’ve become a serious fan of BW3’s, and there is no support group.
About an hour before my dad asked me to run the errand in question, I had eaten about thirty wings from Buffalo Wild Wings West. I jumped into my dad truck and drove out to the Mobile gas station to pick up the buns, anyway.
As I got out of the truck, the urge to drop another load came crawling to me slowly, like a sober girlfriend does after a promiscuous drunk escapade. It started off easy enough, which usually meant I could stave off whatever was being held; so I pay no attention to my ass and instead headed out to the truck to make my way back home. Home, by the way, was two miles away. I drove on.
Severely agonizing pain started shooting up my back. When I’d driven a little more than a mile the problem worsened, and I felt as though my small intestines were being torn to pieces. In fact, I felt as if I had knives stuck inside of me.
What happened next was beyond my control, it was the runs that happened; the point where the air between my shit and the rest of the world had been passed.
I brought the truck to a safe stop at the side of the road and headed for roadside shrubbery. However, before I could reach the sanctity of the bushes, an unfortunate grunt escaped me, and so did the rest of the wings. An avalanche of my own feces ran down my leg on my socks and all over my shoes.
As if nothing else could go wrong, I had no toilet paper. So, there I stood - a large man with trousers full of wing poo but with no toilet paper - and the bush in between me and privacy mocking its asylum. To make matters worse, it was as if everyone on the road at that hour seemed to know I was not going to make it; and so a minor traffic jam ensued.
With no toilet paper available (did I mention that there was no toilet paper to be found?), I wiped with my underwear and my dad’s work gloves.
He never did find them.