[The Dumpster]

Just so everybody remembers, back on February 3, 2006, I started a post called “Dumpster’s Wild Weekend,” wherein I wrote:

Dear PR friends:

This is to let you know that you will have a reprieve from Dumpster postings from Saturday (tomorrow) through Tuesday or Wednesday of next week. The reason is that five of the hottest girls from the Stewsburg High School Class of 1975 have decided their classmate Dumpster, who, back then was the class nerd, has turned out to be a bit more worthy of their attention three decades later. (At least I have kept my hair!)

So, they are having a house/ski party out at Park City, Utah, and they finally prevailed on Dumpster to come along as the LONE, I repeat, LONE male! Their names in high school were Fifi, Bambi, Candi, Kitti, and Olive Oyl. The only one I've really stayed in touch with is Olive Oyl, who married this really rich guy who owns a truck line (and could afford to pay for the very finest of boob jobs). Olive is therefore picking up the tab for the whole trip, and we are all staying in her condo.

I have made it crystal clear to these girls that my heart (as well as other body parts) belongs firmly to Miss Hermione, and that I will stand firm against any temptations of a sexual nature. Besides, I think that all of them are presently married, although some not for the first time. No spouses and no children are invited. I'm sure I am simply wanted for my cooking and bartending skills, and to make certain there is somebody there who can work the DVD player.

But six people sharing a three-bathroom condo has got to make for some interesting PR material. I am planning to keep a daily diary, and I will share it with you upon my return.

I'm packing my laptop, my flannel bathrobe, and an extra-large box of Imodium. Wish me luck!

The Dumpster

Many of you were good enough to respond with encouraging words, and I am therefore posting for your information (and, I hope, entertainment) “The Park City Diaries.” Please be patient, as my laptop broke while I was out there, and I am thus having to reconstruct this experience from handwritten notes. This means that, as befits a man of my age, I may not be able to get it up all at once.

Please feel free to comment on the installments, as they are posted.

[The Dumpster]

Saturday, February 4, 2006:

I arrive at the Atlanta Airport for my flight to Salt Lake City. God, am I nervous! I was the class nerd, and these five babes were all the hottest things going. What are they doing now, and what do they want with me?

Suddenly, my reverie is interrupted by some old lady plopping herself down beside me in the waiting area. “HEY, DUMPSTER!!” she yells, invading my personal space with an attempted smackey-mouth, “ISN’T THIS GONNA BE FUN??”

Quick on the uptake as I am, this gives me a clue that this must be “one of the girls.” (Oooohh, nooo!!!) So I gather my wits and say, “hey, sweetie; are you on this flight, too?” (all the time figuring, at lightning speed, which-fucking-one-is-this?).

(Jesus, Christ! Have they ALL gotten this old and ugly? I mean, this gal looks like the Poster Child for the Osteoporosis Foundation!) Suddenly, some long-neglected synapses close, and I am able to blurt out, “FIFI!! My God, don’t you look great!” (Notice Dumpster’s adroit use of the negative, as well as the instantaneous loss of a long-treasured repertoire of teenage sexual fantasies.)

“Thanks, Dumpster!” Fifi replies, giving me a poke-in-the-gut, “you don’t look so bad yourself!”

“Well, I’ve certainly overcome bulimia,” I joke, lamely. “So, tell me, what are you up to?”

Thankfully, that is the last conversational gambit I needed to hazard at this point. While we’re waiting to board, Fifi cheerfully and garrulously brings me up to date on herself and the rest of the girls. As I said above, the happily-married Olive Oyl is the only one I’ve really kept up with, so I know about her.

Fifi, always the top athlete in high school, never married, and wound up pursuing a career teaching Physical Education at a small, all-female college here in the Southeast (translated, she is probably a lesbian. Two down, three to go). Regrettably, last year she had to retire on disability, due to (just as Dumpster suspected) osteoporosis.

Of the remaining three, I learn that Bambi became a Dental Hygienist, is married to a Baptist preacher, and has five children. Fifi indicated that Bambi “had some difficulty” getting her husband to agree to this trip (no shit, Sherlock! Third down in the twat department.).

Candi (Oh, how I wanted her to lick my cane back in high school!) married, moved away, and that’s about all Fifi knows at this point (drop back ten and punt? Dumpster ruminates).

Then there is Kitti. Raven-haired, voluptuous Kitti. I’ve actually heard bits and pieces about Kitti in the 30 years since our graduation. How she went on to take top honors in Accounting at an Ivy-League school; became one of the first female partners in a “Big Eight” firm (thankfully, not Arthur Anderson!); and her marriage to, and (now I remember) subsequent bitter divorce from, one of the country’s top trial lawyers. However, I’ve also heard that Kitti has aligned herself with some very, very liberal causes, which will probably present a diplomatic problem for the arch-conservative Dumpster.

So, doing the “muff math” (all guys are A+ students at this), I soon realize that Kitti is the only legitimate “target” among these women. Although I am totally in love with only one girl, Hermione, she has recently given me mywalking papers one too many times. So, even if I consider myself “committed,” Hermione obviously doesn’t. What is a reasonably-horny Dumpster to do?

As fate (or Dave) would have it, however, my trip came to be less about poontang, and more about poop, and thus my sharing of these events in this forum.

[The Dumpster]

Saturday, February 4, 2006 (cont’d):

The flight to Salt Lake City was uneventful. I was seated some rows away from Fifi, and we even had different shuttles up to Park City, so there was no more interaction until I got to Olive Oyl’s Park City condo.

Let me take a moment to describe the place: It was the condo version of the infamous Brady Bunch”split-level” house: Not really one story, not really two; but rather an ersatz affair with too many sets of stairs. The “top level” contained the “Master Suite” (a bedroom, bath, and I dunno what else; I never went up there). The “main level” was the living/dining area and the kitchen, together with a “half” (not a full) bath (this was also the entry level). Finally, the “lower level” consisted of two bedrooms, joined by an interconnecting “full” bathroom. That is, both of the bedrooms opened into one bathroom. I should also note that, in the two “lower level” bedrooms, one had two twin beds, and the other had a double- or queen-size (I can’t remember). Importantly, the main level also had a patio, with a hot tub.

Do the PoopReporters now see the potential for fun?

Inquiring minds want to know: What were the sleeping arrangements? Of course, Olive Oyl occupied the master suite, and Candi shared this with her the first night. Bambi, who I could feel was uneasy from the first, was to sleep on the sofa bed on the main level. The two lower-level bedrooms were assigned as follows: Fifi and Kitti to the twin beds; Dumpster to the (as only befits him) “big bed.” Alone.

Fifi and I were the last to arrive, almost simultaneously. The others had evidently been there for a while, judging from their state of intoxication. This was evidenced by how they lined up to tongue-kiss me (GODDAM, thinks Dumpster. Where was this back when it was some good?).

After Olive got everyone squared away, and pizza was ordered, a mighty “memory session” ensued. (How many of you have been there and done that?) We hooted over Miss Grundy and Mr. Grogan, not to mention our Principal, “Machine Gun” McClendon, and his sidekicks, “Chief” Cochran, and the School Nurse, the “Terrible” Miss Terrell. We had a wonderful time, reminiscing about Doug (who was going to be Governor, but wound up driving a Coca-Cola truck), and Willis (who captained the football team, but is now serving major time for drug dealing). Everybody unwrapped their long-suppressed resentments of Dumpster (Valedictorian; STAR Student; etc.), and a good time was had by all.

Dumpster cheerfully fulfilled his appointed duties as bartender, etc., but eventually, the Day of Reckoning arrived. I’d noticed that Bambi had quietly excused herself to the half-bath several times through the course of the evening. As the Hen Session raged on, I felt the dulcet tones of Olive Oyl whispering softly in my ear, “Dumpster, I need you to come with me.”

To be continued....

[Poop Shooter]

Damnit Dumpster, don't leave us hanging like this for too long!!!!!!

[The Dumpster]

Saturday, February 4, 2006 (cont’d):

I felt the dulcet tones of Olive Oyl whispering softly in my ear, “Dumpster, I need you to come with me.”

“Ooohh,” I thought, with a stirring of the loins, “this is where the real fun begins.”

Damn straight. Olive conducted me to the half bath on the main level. There I beheld one of life’s true Commode Catastrophes: Not one, but TWO bloody tampons, mixed with yellow piss, toilet paper, and a few loose pieces of turd, swirling in the bowl, up close to the rim, about to overflow. The stench was overpowering. The pizza in my stomach sought to join it, but valiantly I held down my rising gorge. Needless to say, any other bodily risings were instantly forgotten.

“Olive!” I croaked, “are you sick?”

“No, stupid; it’s Bambi! Haven’t you seen her haul in here several times since you got here?”

“Uh, yeah,” the Dumpster suavely retched, “what do you want me to do about it?”

“Well, dummy, it’s too late to call a plumber, and you’re the only man here,” responded my hostess, “so YOU’VE GOT TO GET IT OUT!”

FUCK!—Where is women’s lib when you need it? Nevertheless, my experience as a PoopReporter instinctively kicked in, and I remembered the Poonurse story about how her supervisor fished a monster turd out of the toilet by grabbing it with an inside-out biohazard bag.

Make a long story short, I did the same, but that toilet never did flush properly the rest of the weekend. Thus, the count is now six adults vs. two toilets.

(To be continued….)

[AssBlaster2000]

I CAN'T believe that a grown woman is goddamn dumb enough to flush tampons. Two of them, no less! Geez!

[The Dumpster]

It gets worse. Just wait....

[Bunghole In the Jungle]

Okay, Dumpster, I just can't believe that someone would leave a load of crap, two tampons, a bunch of toilet paper and who knows what before flushing in one load. Those are things learned in high school, for cripes sake!

Either way, as hostess, the least Olive Oyl could do was call a 24-hour plumbing/crap clearing service.

You cleaned Olive's pipes while yours were still sludgy. You're a better man than most, Dumpster.

[The Dumpster]

Thanks for joining the forums, Bunghole. Neither one of our lives will ever be the same.

I'm working on the next chapter of my "Park City Diaries." It is an interesting saga, and, now that Hermione appears to be out of the picture, the whole story can be told (hint--it ain't all gonna be about poop!).

[AssBlaster2000]

Aha, Bunghole, you broke down and joined us. You will never leave now. You are a Poopreport addict forever. Muahahahahaha.

(I've been a Poopreport addict for four years and still have a job and a marriage. It's not that bad.)

Dumpster, on with the freakin' story already, maybe you really are a manager at IBM, you keep telling us how good the rest of this story is going to be and you're not posting it. *cracks whip* Get typing!

[Bunghole In the Jungle]

Thanks for the warm welcome AB2K and TD. My life will never be the same.... Well, it hasn't been since I actually stumbled onto PR. I look forward to assisting with a couple of projects, if some help is needed and as time permits. My son is a licensed plumber. Mr. Bunghole, with a little persuasion, could provide some engineering expertise. My talents--overactive imagination, great interviewing skills (tricky getting the dirty), and just slightly-better-than average writing skills. Just let me know.

[Rat Droppings]

Hi my name is Rat Droppings and I'm a poopaholic. There's my second self introduction. Dumpster, I've been to Park City. There is NOTHING to do there other than get drunk and fuck. Unless you'd like to break your neck skiing. So I knows them horny 40's were giving it up. I went there and I don't drink but it didn't matter I had altitude sickness so badly that I was hospitalized. I didn't realize that living below sea level all of my life mattered that much until my body got that high. So I have basically no memories of the experience. I am told however by the people who remained conscious through the trip that there was much drinking and debauchery. So do tell or do we have to keep speculating?

[Poop Shooter]

...... and just slightly-better-than average writing skills. Just let me know.

Good, help Dumpster finish his story!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'm tired of waiting up, so I'm going to bed. There better be another chapter by tomorrow!!

[The Dumpster]

Hail and Farewell, Everybody!! I will finish the story, but it won't be tonight. My eyes are too bleary to read my notes, so, like Poop Shooter, I am going to bed!

[The Dumpster]

Okay, on with the story---

Saturday, February 4, 2006 (cont'd):

Needless to say, the episode in the half-bath left both Olive and me sort of "pooped out" for the evening. She was very gracious not to embarrass anybody, and I don't think the others (besides Bambi) even knew there had been a problem.

But I have gotten ahead of myself. The bathroom debacle didn't happen until the shank end of the evening, and so I need to fill in the gaps about what took place in the meantime.

As I said, I was warmly and wetly greeted by all the girls (I think that had been planned in advance), and we had a great evening visiting together, laughing about (and laying to rest) lots of long-forgotten jealousies, resentments, and desires. It is actually fun to be a grown-up sometimes!

Candi, who I literally had not seen since graduation night in 1975, has gotten as big as a house, but she was our "memory bank," leading us from one hilarious memory to another. I never did figure out exactly what her husband does, except that he's some sort of "consultant," and is gone a lot. No wonder she's so jolly!

But then there was Kitti. Looking sexy as ever, but almost anorexic, knocking back one Martini after another (the rest of us were drinking wine), stepping often out onto the patio to smoke, I could sense bitterness, anger, and resentment coiled within her like a spring-loaded shotgun. At first, she joined in our collective revelry, but, as the gin took hold, she pulled back from the group, her internal pressure mounting.

Then I made a fatal mistake. We were remembering some senior project for Mrs. Anderson about “nuclear winter,” when I commented that, thanks to Reagan, my son doesn’t have to worry about such things.

Kitti pounced like a lynx: ”YOU FUCKING REPUBLICANS!!” she shouted, spilling her drink. You can supply the remainder of the tirade, according to your own views, but it made an awkward moment for all of us. I think this is when Bambi went and really tore up the commode, and the other girls retreated into the kitchen to “clean up.” This left me to deal with Kitti, alone.

I tried to reconcile with her over one of the few subjects on which I agree with the “liberals,” my opposition to so-called “tort reform.” Bad move. Suddenly, Kitti is in W’s camp. This brought on a tirade against lawyers, as I, too late, remembered about her divorce from one of “us.”

This led to her going off on men, Southerners, small-towners, Christians, SUV drivers, meat-eaters, gun-owners, and basically everything else that defines The Dumpster.

I am used to this kind of thing, but, to my total surprise, I found myself becoming aroused by this woman. [BAD DUMPSTER!! DOWN, BOY!!] Suddenly, I needed to conquer her; not by force, but by kindness. Suddenly, the weekend had a focus, and I had a mission. Girls, it is a guy thing, and you will never understand it.

”And Hermione?” my conscience whispers. “Oh, don’t bother me about that now; I’ll think about it tomorrow.”

So, as you can see, Olive’s Summons to the Stopped-Up Throne came as a welcome diversion, and an effective end to an anxious evening.

What will tomorrow hold? Stay tuned….