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 | Blogs > emersunbigguns > Blossoms from the Fart Garden > A Confrontation With Locked Doors |
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As I left the house for a walk down to the local convenience store that morning, it did not occur to me that I had left my keys by themselves, orphaned on top of the television set. My keys and I have a love/hate relationship -- although they enjoy their job of opening doors and starting cars, they are bound and determined to get away from me at all times. On this day, however, through no fault of their own, they were abandoned. I walked to the store, got a paper and a bucket of coffee, and made my way back to the house. This walk is about six blocks and takes roughly ten to fifteen minutes, depending on my gait. As I was walking, I was sipping my coffee and starting to get those intestinal rumblings that come with the combination of exercise, last night's dinner stewing in the colon, and hot coffee. What I ate was inconsequential, because it was now a gelatinous mass forming into a future load. It was at some point during this ambling, coffee-sipping period that I realized I had no keys. We have all been in this situation. For most of us, there is usually still some technique for getting into the house even without keys. And for those with the time to execute those techniques, these methods of entry are usually pretty discreet. But at this point I was rapidly running out of time: the rumbling was worsening, the flatus was blasting like a sickening pipe organ, and I had increased my speed to double quick. Thoughts were racing through my mind: where could I make my entry? How could I do it quickly? Once I did secure entry, would I make it to the throne on time?  click to enlarge My neighborhood is not that great, so I do not hide keys outside. My uncle on the corner has a set, but he was out for the day. I was going to have to tough it out, so to speak. That meant the basement entrance. I made my way into the backyard from the alley and pulled open the outer basement door. Down about ten concrete steps is the little-used inner basement door -- and when I say "little used," I mean "nearly never." There were cobwebs hitting me in the face as I raced downwards into an area with almost no light. The inner basement door was barred. The pressure was building in my bowels, I was getting stomach cramps, and the sounds of distress were gurgling through my loins. I heaved my girth against the door three separate times before it finally gave way into the basement from hell. The place of no light at all. I blindly raced across the floor and up the steps to the door leading to the inside of my house. A door that was less than ten paces from the throne. This door, too, was locked. Desperation struck me in the form a small spittle of bung juice dampening my underwear. I squeezed my cheeks together and felt my eyes bulge as I bashed against the second door of the morning. Once, twice -- finally, it broke free. I bounded to the throne, dropped every stitch of clothing, and let loose a cannonade of kaka that struck the sides of the bowl with a wrath nearly unknown. My strong old American Standard is a toughy, though -- she bent but did not break against this onslaught. As the wave of relief overcame me, I realized that I had literally wrecked my house in order to unleash this beast. The final tally: two broken doors. One broken door frame. One door-barring device. New trim for the inner door. And one pair of Fruit of the Loom boxers, discarded with due respect. Even after doing the work myself, the cost was well over $250. But that money, weighed against the relief I felt when it was over, is a small price to pay.  The Key To A Man's Shart  |
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6/5/2008 5:29 pm |
Hello! You cracked me up on this. Thank you so much for telling your story like no other!! I couldn't stop laughing. Great blogs!! Peace from Outoftouch1954
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6/5/2008 4:42 am |
You really need to stop leaving the house, emersun. 
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6/5/2008 4:39 am |
Have you ever totalled the number of undies you've thrown away in your life?  
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