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 | Blogs > emersunbigguns > Blossoms from the Fart Garden > Water Slide Chili Dog |
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The summer of 1992, I took my now ex-girlfriend and her daughter -- I'll call them Lynn and Erin -- to a water park, attempting to nurture the bond that was forming between us. After a busy morning of paddleboats and bumper cars, we took a moment to refresh ourselves with a hardy lunch of chilidogs, cheese fries, and lemonade. Relaxing under shade trees, Erin smiled a chili-smeared grin as the sun cast its languid glow over the park. With the leisurely picnic ending, we hastily dispersed to the changing rooms in anticipation of our next adventure: the giant water slide. During our first run I noticed a gnawing, internal discomfort, although the sure signs of brown-capping weren't apparent until Erin and I climbed the half-mile of stairs to the summit for our second run. Unfortunately I had taken the opportunity to wear a most-revealing blue Speedo in the hope of further enamoring myself to the beautiful Lynn. Lord knows, I have the body to accommodate such a blatant, public display of manhood. However, I soon began to regret my decision, for the sharp cut of the elastic dug into my swelling, gaseous abdomen. My intestines were bubbling like a whirlpool. By the time we reached the loading platform at the summit, I was squirming in wretched misery. Considering my options, I surmised that taking the slide was far more promising than fighting my way back down the stairs through the crowd. Thank God I was next in line. My trouble would soon be over. The only obstacle before me was an elderly German tourist staring pensively at the wild rapids. With obvious reservation, he shuffled slowly toward the mouth of the blue tunnel. Beyond the point of pleasantries, I bellowed, "Come on, Pops! Shake a leg!" Turning toward the acne-pocked boy who was managing the ride that day, the old man made a feeble attempt in his native tongue to communicate his apprehension. I had no other choice! The brown star pulsated, nearing supernova. The manager boy recoiled in shock as I pushed the old man down the slide, head first. Cursing me with hostile foreign jibberish, he disappeared around the first turn. In an instant I followed, hurling myself down the slick plastic vortex. The fury of the slide was incredible. Rolling and spinning, I gathered speed quickly. The angle of the chute dipped to nearly seventy degrees, increasing my velocity as I careened from side to side, the water turning to white, angry foam. Ricocheting from a high, banking wall, the impact smashed me like some fecal-laden piņata. I lost control, discharging a foul, liquid trail. A child screamed somewhere behind me as I slid toward certain humiliation below. Frantically I grabbed at the back of my suit in a desperate attempt to flush myself clean. To my dismay, a fetid school of dung-guppies spilled into the churning maelstrom.  click to enlarge Nearing the final turn, the old man was standing upright in the tunnel in front of me -- I'm sure to exact some sort of revenge. His sinewy muscles were tensed, his dilated eyes filled with rage. But with youth and gravity on my side, I swiftly took him out at the ankles. A palsied hand grabbed me as we tumbled out of the chute and into the pool. Moments later a wailing boy fell behind us, riding the crest of a polluted wave. Thinking fast, I collared the old man and dragged him onto the concrete deck. A lifeguard confronted us as people ran screaming from the pool in pale-faced terror. I explained to the guard how the old man had soiled the waters -- how obviously the speed and excitement had proven too much for a man of his age and condition. Unable to comprehend my story or explain himself, the old man could only respond with a flurry of incomprehensible shrieks, invectives, and obscene gestures. I suggested that he was hysterical from embarrassment and that in the best interests of everyone that he be removed from the park -- immediately. Though the guard eyed me with suspicion, he had no alternative but to believe my story. Fortunately the force of the waters had washed me thoroughly free of any incriminating evidence. I gathered Lynn and Erin and made a dash for the parking lot. I'm sure the truth eventually surfaced, but not until we were safely on the interstate, heading back home.  The Key To A Man's Shart  |
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6/30/2008 12:34 am |
That poor old guy being accused of leaving a fetid trail of feces....how mean of you! But, I'm giggling just the same. Mean Americans! The Key To A Man's Shart
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6/10/2008 11:28 pm |
That poor old guy being accused of leaving a fetid trail of feces....how mean of you! But, I'm giggling just the same. Mean Americans!  Passion lives longer when friendship is its nourishment
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 6/10/2008 11:02 pm |
Ya cum clean on that one  When someone comes along,gonna give ya some love and affection,I say..Get it while ya can.      
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