My grandson said, "Grandpa, I bet you can't eat three chilidogs and then go on the ride."
All I could think of was, "pfft." This grandson of mine doesn't know me very well. I ate my chilidogs and taunted my grandchild with another, followed by a soda.
We went to stand in line. I was feeling a slight bit of heatstroke -- my stomach began to growl and my intestines started practicing yoga. I was about to tell him that I had to hit the bathroom real quick when it was our turn to take the ride. Uh oh... how would this play out? I knew there was some liquid lying on top of my rectum, just sitting there, waiting for me to loosen up.
We started the climb and I started to sweat. My grandson started laughing, telling me not to barf or he'd win the chilidog bet. If he only knew the pain and suffering I was going through!
And then, the descent. On the way down I experienced the most amazing feeling known to man: my poop got stuck in suspended animation. It retreated from rectum humping and rose to my small intestines. Well, maybe it didn't do that, but the urge to poop was gone.
And then we went onto the straight part of the track, and the pooping feeling came back. Noises started coming out of my arse and I knew I needed another descent soon. Finally, the coaster went up and then down, and once again I felt safe -- but the ride was almost over.
We came to a stop and Little Richard was preaching again. He wanted out and was punishing me like when I had to watch a "Full House" marathon one time.
I stood up and noticed my arse was super sweaty. Or was it wet with substance? I had to find out, so I told my grandson to stay put and hit the bathroom.
I felt confident I was going to win the battle. I ran into a stall -- and was horrified by the toilet seat. Yellow and brown stains all over. Now I know why most places use black seats: the stains are still there, but what you can't see technically isn't there. I would have to perform a Hover Poop, squatting over the hole so my ass wouldn't touch the seat, even though I knew that when it was over, my legs would feel numb from the exertion.
I started to let the poop fly out at speeds exceeding Mach 3. Just then my throat started to feel funny. I was going to barf and I couldn't stop. "AWWWRAARRR," I remarked, as I barfed my way into standard barfing position. I hoarked all over my shoes and on the floor.
Well, the worst was about to be seen. I looked down and in my pants was a puddle of crap. While I was barfing, the crap had come flowing out. I sat there, mortified that this could happen, wishing I was home on my own toilet, and wondering how I was going to get out of this.
There was a guy next to me and the little bit of barf and poop that didn't get stuck in my pants flowed over to his stall. All I could hear was, "holy ****!" I looked under the stall (which a man should never do, but this was a unique situation) and noticed he had lifted his legs and was now crouched on the toilet, trapped on an island from which there was no escape. The barf/poop curled around his toilet, and from what I could see he was angry and scared.
I had two rolls of toilet paper to try rewriting history with. After one roll cleaned my arse, I still had the Pacific Ocean in my pants to deal with. The other stall guy was screaming "help!" and I kept trying to tell him everything would be okay, but he wouldn't shut up.
Finally, my grandson came in and, with a gasp of air, started screaming, "who SH** themself?!?" I yelled to him and he followed my voice to the stall I was in. I told him to go find help and hurry before too many people find out.
About fifteen minutes later, after a parade of at least twenty people had come in and left immediately, my grandson came back with two employees. They locked the bathroom. One said, "don't worry, it is common for older people to lose their bladder and such." Thanks.
They had a hose. They told me to open my stall and get ready for some pressure. I didn't want myself exposed, but I had to. I opened the stall and they sprayed me with the hose. I took off my pants, shoes, and everything except my shirt while they sprayed me. I was now super clean, and waited while they sprayed the poop into the drainage thing in the middle of the bathroom. However, I had no pants.
I handed my grandson the credit card and told him to buy me some clothes. He came back with clothes that to this still cause me nightmares. I thanked the two men and told them to help out the poor man in the stall beside me. We ran off and never visited that place again.
As for my grandson, he won't shut up about that day... always telling everyone how old paps fell for the "eat lots of greasy foods before you go on the roller coaster" trick.
-- Phaze [1]