BJ And The Bush

Every neighborhood has its own Scut Farkus [1]. You know the one. He's the little shit who always has to pick on others to prove that he's a badass, even though he's only compensating for his own shortcomings. In the neighborhood I grew up in, our Scut Farkus was named BJ. I think his name was more of an inside joke between his parents, but we were grade school kids at the time, and we never made the connection. He went to the same school as me, and shared a classroom with my younger sister. He didn't bother me much; in fact, we became pretty good friends for a few years. You just had to stand up to him when he started getting cocky to keep him in his place.

BJ lived down the street from me. Often, after school, I'd get off the bus and walk down to his house where BJ, his younger brother David, and myself would all play basketball or wiffleball with the rest of the neighborhood kids.

This particular day was just that. It was a warm Friday afternoon, and some of the school kids had plans to get together to play basketball. I was going to meet BJ and David at their house, and then we'd join up with the rest of the gang. The bus dropped off BJ and his brother, then drove a couple blocks up the road and dropped off my sister and I. I handed my sister the house key and told her that I'd be home later. With my backpack over my shoulder, I made the trek back down to BJ's house.

As I got closer to their house, I could see BJ searching through his backpack for something. He was looking pretty frustrated and, judging by the cuss words he was shouting at David, I could tell something was wrong. I got closer to their house, and my suspicions were confirmed -- BJ had lost the house key.

He looked everywhere. He checked his pockets, his school bag, under the doormat, everywhere. They were locked out, and it would be about an hour before their mom got home. I figured it wouldn't be a big deal, but BJ didn't feel so confident. I could see him shuffling and I knew something wasn't right. That's when he said the magic words, in a half-crying tone: "I gotta take a dump. I have to find that key!"

His frustration built to anger. He lashed out at his younger brother, who joined me in laughing at BJ's ordeal. I offered him one of the bathrooms in my house, but he would have to walk about two blocks up the road to get there. BJ responded with, "I don't think I'd make it up the hill. I gotta go now." He started weighing his options. The next-door neighbors also had a key to their house, as well as a bathroom, so he went there and knocked on their front door. No answer. He started sweating as his nervousness grew.

Again, I offered my bathroom, two blocks up the road; but to his regret, he denied it. That's when the Boy Scout in him started to emerge. He began to stake out his yard for a place he could shit without being seen. This would prove to be difficult, since they lived on a corner lot. They had no barn, no fence, and only one tree. BJ's only options were the driveway around back, which went downhill, where no one would see him; or behind the bushes that went around his house from the front yard to the back.

Common sense didn't prevail, as BJ chose the bushes. It was a funny scene as he walked between the house and the bushes to take his sneaky shit. The bushes were only about four feet tall. They were full up top, but trimmed at the bottom. You could see his feet planted firmly on the ground, his ass was just perfectly obscured from the bushes, and popping out above the top of the bushes was his upper body and head. He unbuckled and bent over while David and I played watchmen for anyone who might walk or ride by as BJ fertilized.

I can picture sketch artists circling BJ and scribbling their own depiction of him as he positioned himself to shit. There he was, hunched over behind the bushes, one arm holding onto a windowsill to keep from falling, the other holding his pants down and clear from the fallout. In between our laughs, you could hear BJ grunting, in an attempt to hasten the process.

It was karma long overdue. The little punk of the neighborhood, humiliated because he locked himself out of his own house when his bowels got the worst of him. David and I couldn't let this opportunity pass. We'd walk up to the bushes as he shat, taunt him and laugh at him. This only led to BJ spouting off at us even more, which only attracted more attention to him crapping behind the bushes. His eyes bulged with focus as he grunted out a mean steamer onto the dirt below; and as he readied himself to pinch off the first loaf, David and I would look over at him and laugh, causing him to lose focus and wobble around a little and start cussing at us some more. Which only brought upon more laughter from us.

A few cars drove by during BJ's ordeal, but it didn't stop him. He successfully pinched off two hefty loaves behind the bushes in front of the house. Once finished, BJ faced another problem: he had nothing to wipe with. He didn't think twice about it -- he just pulled up his pants and dealt with the sleek cheeks for the time being. The three of us then went over to a friend's house and played some basketball. When we returned, we found BJ's pile serving as a buffet to good dozen or so flies. He kept a house key hidden outside the house from that day on.

-- Three Ply [2]