The monster storm (as The Holy Shitter aptly described her) came rolling in on Saturday, battering Melbourne with its rain bands and the first gusts of wind. By late that night we were in the thick of it, and the whole world was a whirling mass of wind and rain. I pulled an all-nighter keeping my ears glued to the weather reports while my sister, Heather, TRIED to get some sleep. When six o'clock Sunday morning rolled around, I passed out in my bed for a nice nap.
"WAKE UP!" yelled Dave, my brother-in-law. "GET IN THE CLOSET! NOW!"
Well, my soft-spoken brother-in-law is not one to shout, so I was on my feet in an instant. The wind howled wickedly through the rafters as every wall in the house shook. It was like a six point earthquake. We all piled into the closet shelter to wait out the storm.
"Told you so," I said to my sister, who told me we wouldn't see any of the eye wall. We were now in the thick of it, and the worst part, too: the northern end of the storm.
Just as we pushed the mattress against the door to shield us from the wind, my sister got a funny look on her face. She let out the longest, loudest fart I had ever heard. It echoed against the closet walls even over the evil howling of Frances.
"Ow," she grumbled. "My stomach hurts."
"Do tell," I replied, holding my nose at the foul stench. I didn't know which was worse -- the trembling walls or Heather's vibrating ass. For the last couple of days we had been boarded inside with nothing to eat but crackers and greasy chicken spread. This was coming back to haunt Heather during this worst part of the hurricane.
"I can't hold it!" she yelled, as the storm threatened to rip off our roof. Suddenly she burst from her foxhole of pillows, shoved the mattress down, and bolted for the bathroom.
The bathroom was next door to our closet shelter. I heard a storm surge, but it didn't come from the hurricane. It came from Heather's ass. Water splashed loudly in the toilet on the other side of the shaking wall. While the rain poured down in buckets outside, brown rain poured from Heather into the toilet. She and the hurricane pooped in unison.
She returned, but just to grab her emergency pack. There was no toilet paper in the bathroom; she had to use some of her reserve supply. But I don't remember the toilet flushing at that point because a tornado roared by outside. At least, we think it was a tornado.
Eventually Heather returned, looking relieved. But her stay was brief. Suddenly water started leaking out of the ceiling fan, and we had to evacuate our shelter for the front room.
I'd like to say her diarrhea stopped after we fled, but this is Heather we're talking about. She made two more trips to the bathroom, all the while hoping the ceiling wouldn't fall on top of her. I don't know who made more of a mess -- Frances in Melbourne or Heather in the bathroom. Both places could have been declared a national disaster area.