Now, let me stop right here and warn the reader: I will go into great detail describing the food I ate over the following two-and-a-half days. The reason being: I want to give you a proper perspective on the contents filling my colon at the time of extraction. Keep reading. It will all come together in the end.
We arrived at my in-law's house, greeted by the smell of pork chops on the grill. My father-in-law is a big pig-eating fan, and, as befits my status as son-in-law, I sometimes have to eat things towards which I am less than agreeable -- porkchops being one of those items. So I had a giant mid-afternoon meal of several porkchops, a salad, and some potatoes on the side. I was sated.
Being the Shameful Shitter that I am, my bowels get locked up so tight whenever I leave my house that I don't feel a squeak; the remainder of the evening passed without a BM. I slept fitfully that night, feeling as bloated as I ever have.
I woke up before dawn to go fishing with my father-in-law. We stopped at a gas station to get a cup of coffee and some snacks. I started feeling gas pains and struggled with them throughout the day. Still, undeterred, I continued to consume Corn Nuts and honey buns for the remainder of our fishing trip.
We finished up and headed home. On the way, my portly father-in-law pointed out what he termed a "great" Chinese restaurant that had a lunch buffet. Not good. I pigged out, going plate for plate of fried rice, sweet and sour chicken, Mongolian beef, spicy pork and even a bowl of egg drop soup.
By now, I was getting very uncomfortable. The gas pains were building up and I couldn't sit upright. When we got home, I tried to relieve the pressure by taking a dump. I couldn't even drop a dingleberry, managing only to squeak out a couple of gassy farts.
I was getting scared. I had had consumed enough food to gain about five pounds on the scale and there was no shit in sight.
We wrapped up our visit with a large tub of Kentucky Fried Chicken, macaroni and cheese, biscuits and gravy. We threw a few things in the car and I sat on the toilet for a couple minutes, trying to get things moving. Nothing seemed to work; I even assumed what my wife affectionately calls the "fart position" -- picture a 280-pound fatass on all fours on the floor of a tiny bathroom with his ass pointed high into the air. I waited there for a few minutes, once again trying to relieve the gas pressure that at this point was very uncomfortable. This time, not even a gassy fart came out. I was bricked up solid and I had a six-hour trip in front of me.
This is a terrifying scenario for a Shameful Shitter. The laws of physics demanded that my colon evacuate in the near future, but my near future would be on the road, with access only to rest areas or restaurant toilets. I was afraid. But having an appointment the following day, we had to head out.
We left about eight that night, knowing that, at best, we would be home around 2:00 AM. I should have known better. Nothing would be open. I had eaten WAY too much. I hadn't dropped a load in almost forty-eight hours and I was FULL of shit. I knew this because the gas pains would come and go. They were like what I imagine labor pains must be for a woman. They would occur in waves, stronger in intensity and closer in frequency. Getting into the car that night, I should have known better, but, being a guy, my only preoccupation was in making good time.
One hour into the trip, the gas pains started again. This time they were almost unbearable. My wife, passed out in the passenger seat, was oblivious to my plight. I was at times doubled over in agony, trying to stay on the road, trying to get home as fast as I legally could. For over two hours I had some of the worst gas pain I have ever experienced, before or since.
My wife woke up three hours into our journey to find me doubled over and purple from the pain. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"Gas pain," I replied. She consoled me, and the pains went away a few minutes later. We continued our midnight drive and had just crossed the state line, two hours from my home, when "it" happened.
When I say "it," I mean the most intense pressure I have ever felt bearing down on my asshole. It felt like the running of the bulls in Pamplona, complete with all of the agitated Spaniards and tourists, only in my ass. With all of the energy I could muster, I closed the gates and barred the coming unholy flood. I was racing at nearly eighty-five miles an hour down the road with nothing in sight when it began. A countdown, and this time, without my permission.
10
Me: "Oh my God, I am going to shit myself!"
My wife: "Don't you dare, you sick bastard!"
9
Me: "I'm gonna shit right here on the seat!"
My wife: "Don't you dare, you sick bastard!"
8
My wife: "Can't we find an exit? Pull over at the next exit!"
Me: (weakly) "No time..."
7
My wife: "Pull over or something, maybe you can go in the woods!"
Me: "The woods?"
6
I quickly jump across a couple lanes of traffic, into the emergency lane, and slam on the brakes...
5
I fumble with and finally unfasten my seatbelt. I quickly reach and unlock the door...
4
I jump out of my seat and almost into the road, barely missing an oncoming driver, headlights flashing and the horn blowing in my face. My wife is screaming at me to go in the woods or something...
3
I quickly assess the situation and see that I have managed to park on a strip of road a good hundred yards from the nearest tree cover. Nothing! Not even a bush or sapling to hide my Shameful ass at midnight. One look to the tree line, nearly one hundred yards away, and I realize the obvious fact: I will shit, in two seconds... and I can not get my fat butt across a hundred yard field in under two seconds...
2
Time to make a decision. It's not a matter of when I will rectally explode; that decision was made for me by my poor beleaguered sphincter, and I was only notified just seconds ago. No, it's a matter of where. Where will I explode? In my pants? On the drivers side, in full view of oncoming traffic? I can't make it to the woods, and there is nothing else in sight...
Wait a second, I know what I'll do...
1
I hobble over to the bumper of our car, face my wife through the windshield, headlights still on, shining in my eyes as I make the decision that has forever changed my life...
Lift-off!
I dropped my pants, grabbed on to the bumper and, while maintaining eye contact with my horrified wife, unleashed the foulest and most violent rectal flow known to man. Two days worth of binge eating, propelled by the gas buildup created by all the food contained for forty-eight hours in my colon, came firing out onto the asphalt. My wife covered her eyes and screamed at the top of her lungs. I couldn't believe it -- here, I, a Shameful Shitter, was taking a monster shit in public. More than public -- not five feet off of the road! And my sizeable ass was in full view of oncoming traffic going both ways! Not to mention Mount Poo, the largest human shit house ever dropped by an upright mammal.
I was still basking in the euphoria of the greatest shit I had ever shat when I realized the problem: cleanup. I yelled at my wife to find scraps of paper, napkins, or anything else that even vaguely resembled TP. The headlights of a car came over the top of the hill, and I realized that I still had my shorts around my ankles, ass and manhood exposed to the night air. I quickly pulled up my shorts up over my soiled ass end and pretended to have engine trouble as the vehicle passed by. As soon as it was gone, I dropped my shorts again and began the messy cleanup job.
Have you ever seen those scenes of the Exxon Valdez oil spill, where they're cleaning up oil-covered birds with little more that a paper towel? That was the picture on the side of the road for about ten minutes, except all I had was a napkin or two, and it was no bird -- it was a naked, swamp-assed 280-pound man. My cleanup was interrupted another three times by passing motorists, and I had to pull up my pants each time and feign some more car trouble.
Thinking about it now, I am very grateful that no one stopped to help us. If they had, how could I ever explain the giant pile of shit just sitting there in front of my car? Worse yet, how could I explain the pile of napkins, magazine pages and newspaper clippings covered in steaming liquid man-shit?
I did eventually get cleaned up, having to stop twice more in the middle of the night before getting home to evacuate the remnants of the binge fest. Both were memorable occasions that I will perhaps share at a later date; but both lacked the intensity and bravado of shitting by -- or should I say, "on" -- the roadside.