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 Binge, Purge, EvacuatePosted 06.30.2006 by Duke E. Mann (41)
This is my third submission to Poop Report. I feel a bit remiss in not contributing more often, as I have a plethora of suitable anecdotes to share, but I have been busy lately. Nevertheless, for some reason I felt that this story needed to be told. While earlier tales were historical, each occurring over ten years ago, this story is only days old. Though different, this event was no less traumatic at the time it occurred.
I'm a pretty regular guy, and on a typical day I'll try to take a crap on the clock. This is in addition to my daily home shit. It's a very rare day that I don't take at least one dump, and that is what makes this story unique for me. I've heard stories of kids who go off to summer camp and don't take a dump for an entire week, but that has never happened to me. It started on a Thursday night. After a nice big lunch of Mexican food, I treated myself to Whataburger for dinner sometime around midnight. And some beers. My intestines weren't exactly pleased with this choice, but it was late and I had to get up early, so I went to bed without dropping the kids off at the pool for the night. I figured I could make up for it in the morning when I got to work and maybe even get in two paid dumps on Friday. Friday morning came and I was feeling the urge; but as usual, I was running late. I was also hungry, so I stopped by Sonic on the way in to work and picked up a SuperSonic breakfast burrito -- eggs, sausage, cheese, hash browns, tomatoes, jalapeños and salsa -- along with hash browns and a Coke. I knew that eggs make me shit and that I should avoid them, but I ignored my instincts and sat down at my desk and devoured the greasy breakfast and then headed off for the shitter. Sure enough, I had the shits. No big surprise there, the way I'd been eating the past couple of days. For some reason, instead of a mild lunch I decided to go to the Genghis Grill. For those of you who don't know, the Genghis Grill is a Mongolian stir-fry joint where you mix up a big bowl of fixins' and add some spicy sauces and seasonings, and they cook it on a huge grill in front of you. I made mine with chicken and lots of sausage, all manner of vegetables (including jalapeños), and topped off with some Asian chili and Mongolian BBQ sauces. All on top of fried rice. Oh yeah, I had them scramble in some eggs with each bowl. I had two big bowls of this. Then it was back to work and more runny shits. About four o'clock I realized that my loose bowels had turned into a full-fledged case of the bubbleguts, with intermittent diarrhea that didn't appear to be going away any time soon. Oh, but things get more complicated. I'm a musician and sound engineer on the weekends; and on this particular weekend I was working both Friday and Saturday nights at a club that packs in a big crowd. Big weekend crowds in bars equate to particularly nasty toilets in those clubs. Anyone who has ever been in a men's room stall on a busy night knows that the mixture of feces, vomit, urine, and general nastiness that coats every surface is almost unbearable. There's no way that any sober person could shit in one of those stalls. So I had a real problem on my hands. I went home after work and took another runny shit, probably the tenth one of the day. I decided to pop an ass mint -- that's code for Imodium AD between myself and fellow musician and PoopReporter Straight-Pipe. Many times we have been spared the two AM bar shit through careful planning and early application of the ass mint. So after taking the pill and showering, I headed off to the club to work. I was feeling better by the time I got to the club, but all that shitting had made me hungry. This club comps me my food and bar tab when I work there, so of course I had to order up a barbecued pulled pork sandwich and several beers over the course of the night. Just to be safe, I took another ass mint when I ordered the food. Things went okay Friday night. Saturday came and I rolled out of bed at the crack of noon. After doing the yard work in the hot Texas June sun, I was ready for some lunch, so I went to Mimi's Café, a New Orleans style place with pretty good food. I had a big Cobb salad, some corn chowder, and a huge buttermilk spice muffin. I made a halfhearted attempt at taking a dump when I got home, but the dual ass mints had firmed things up in that department. And then it was time to go back to work at the club. Another night of pulled pork sandwiches and beer passed uneventfully. Sunday afternoon I rolled out of bed and decided that it was time to unload the previous three meals before I attacked my usual Sunday afternoon feast of chicken fajitas. But I couldn't produce anything but a few noisy farts. So off to the feast it was, and let me tell you: I didn't hold back. When Sunday night came and I still hadn't shit, I figured I wouldn't worry about it -- I'd just let nature take its course. With that in mind, we ordered up a giant Little Caesar's pizza and some Crazy Bread and sauce along with a two-liter of Coke. And I held my ground. Monday morning came and I'm feeling no urge, so it's off to work. I had a chewy granola bar for breakfast, not wanting to tempt fate with another Sonic burrito. Sometime around noon I felt like I might be able to attempt a turd, so I retreated to the cool confines of my home away from home -- the warehouse bathroom -- with a magazine and thoughts about what to have for lunch. I work in a relatively small office building/warehouse complex. We have both a men's and a women's restroom in the front of the office, and there is an additional restroom back in the warehouse. The staff is mostly women, with only myself and one other guy routinely in the office. I claimed the warehouse restroom some time ago, and it has become my de facto homebase. The warehouse bathroom is in a hidden area that's easy to miss if you don't know where to look. And it has its own air conditioning vent that keeps the small room nice and cold. All in all, it's quite a peaceful place. Peaceful -- except that a certain person in the office whom we'll call Mary (because that's her name) always seems to come looking for me when I go in there. Never mind the fact that I have a message box, voicemail, email, and a desk on which to place a note; any time Mary needs me, she runs around the office hollering my name. I've theorized that she has a sensor on the warehouse bathroom door and knows when I go in there. It never fails -- day after day, for years now, whenever I go into the bathroom I can hear her feet clomping around the office, hollering out my name, and eventually her footsteps and voice draw nearer until she realizes (for the thousandth time) that I'm on my throne. It's never been an emergency -- always some menial tidbit of information that could have been conveyed in any of a dozen other ways. Something like "Frank called for you." At first I would pinch it off and rush out of the bathroom, expecting there to be some sort of crisis; but over the years I have learned to ignore her and take care of business, only to confirm afterwards the reason for her seeking me out to be yet another mundane message. I settled in for what I figured to be a turd of magnificent proportions. I felt the urge, and things had shifted a bit; but something inside me wasn't budging. At first I thought that maybe I wasn't quite ready yet, but then I realized that the problem was slightly more serious: I had created a turd so large and firm that it could not fit through the exit. It was trying, but to no avail. I tried to relax and let things happen. This brown monster has its pinky sticking out the back door, but the rest of the beast was too big for the escape hatch. I briefly thought of a story about a guy who built a car in his basement and then realized that he couldn't drive it out of the basement. I was rocking back and forth trying to birth this beast when I suddenly felt it rush the back door. The time had come, and I was as ready to see this guest go as it was to leave. Except it wasn't going to be a quick exit. This shitbrick had the girth of a can of Pringles and had to be longer than Shaq's arm. I had it about twenty-five percent of the way out when I heard the warehouse door creak open and footsteps rapidly approaching. Knowing the usual routine, I was expecting an interruption, but I wasn't expecting it to be anything important. As luck would have it, I was wrong. Mary was making a beeline for the crapper door, shouting my name as she came. I was already pissed off about the prospect of having to go hands-on with this brown beast and was in no mood for small talk through the bathroom door. Then she said those words that I never thought I'd hear: "The fire department is here and they're evacuating the building." Mind you, I had my own evacuation issues to deal with; but I didn't want to burn alive with a giant loaf hanging from my ass like a broken-off telephone pole. On the other hand, there was no way to put this genie back in the bottle. This was an emergency. After dismissing the idea of giving myself a caesarean with my folding knife, I decided that I'd push this beast out with brute force. I could hear the hustle and bustle of people outside, and I could hear the fire engines idling just outside the warehouse door. This was a life-or-death situation. My wife always joked that I'm going to die on the toilet because I spend so much time in there, but now it might actually come true. With a massive push, I got things moving. And things kept moving as I felt my insides hollow out. I had to flush twice while it was slithering into the bowl, but I got a chance to glimpse the massive beast. It was easily a yard long (probably more), and before the taper it had to be three inches in girth. Unfortunately, due to the circumstances, I couldn't hang around to marvel at the size of my creation. I finished up and flushed the remnants of the beast, giving the toilet two extra flushes for good measure. As I bolted from the bathroom I saw two firemen in full gear, one holding an axe and pole. I guessed that he was coming to extract me from the cool confines of my crapper. As I headed out the front door, I noted a distinct lack of smoke or flame. I got outside just as everyone was returning to his or her offices. I asked Mary what was going on. Apparently, the fire department had been called due to a leaky sprinkler head in the space next to ours, and they were only making a precautionary check of the entire building. There was no emergency. The fire department had not asked us to evacuate the building -- that was Mary's overreaction to seeing the firemen in the building asking questions. I will be the first to admit to my fellow PoopReporters that this tale is rather anti-climactic, and that the ending lacks panache. But this is a completely true story, not embellished for entertainment purposes, and I felt that it needed to be told. My apologies for the lackluster finale. I received no such apologies from Mary. Post new comment
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