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Blossoms from the Fart Garden
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This is my place for Uninsightful Adolescent Ramblings. If anyone actually finds it, reads it, and heaven forbid, makes a comment on it, I'll be very surprised.
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| Little League Baseball Memories |
Jul 4, 2008 6:47 pm
Mood: Shitty, 84 Views | Oh about 10 or 11 years ago I was roped into umpiring my son's minor league game.
As the only umpire, I was calling balls and strikes from just behind the pitcher when a harmless little fart made his presence known, but turned out to be significantly juicier than expected. Fortunately the pitch was a credible strike three, the third out, and I waddled like a scalded penguin, clenching my butt cheeks together, to the porta-potty past right field.
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My briefs were a loss, but fortunately they did their job in saving the pants. I cleaned up as best I could and went out to finish the game -- with twenty-odd eight-year-olds and as many parents staring at my ass looking for a stain, no doubt. | |
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| Looking Back On Our Backyard... |
Jun 18, 2008 11:56 pm
201 Views | Being born during the Korean War had its ups and downs. Even though we were only a few miles from town, it was basically a rural setting. There were two dairy farms within two miles of our house and we had a neighbor who eschewed cars and used a horse-drawn wagon for all his local trips. On the down side, we had no running water in our home, so we depended on a well in the backyard. Needless to say, no water in the house meant no porcelain throne to sit upon while crapping. We had the dreaded outhouse: the bane of all country folk.
Let me paint a picture for you: the time is 2:00 AM. I am lying in my cozy bed, deeply sunk into the soft folds of a warm feather mattress, when suddenly it happens. The turnip greens and hog jowls I dined upon for supper started rumbling in my tummy; or could it be the delicious crackling cornbread that contained just the right amount of crispy pork skin, or maybe even the green beans that had simmered all day awash in floating hunks of fatback. It really makes no difference, as the ominous rumblings are getting lower and lower. Something wants to come out and is hell bent on having its way.
I groggily arose, in my flannel pajamas, and padded to the back door for a peek out at the weather. Oh, no... it was snowing quite heavily, and there was already a deep accumulation on the ground; plus, the temperature was down around twenty degrees. The rumbling in my bowels became more pronounced -- something was demanding release and it demanded it soon. My desperate mind was seeking a solution -- anything other than slogging through half-a-foot of snow. "The chamber pot," you think. (Of course you did not call it that; most country folk referred to it as a "slop jar.") But the slop jar was reserved for urine collection only. Pooping in it might be allowed if you were sick or being given an enema, but it was otherwise off-limits for solid waste collection.
I resigned myself to the inevitable and began to dress. First, a warm, fuzzy pair of heavy woolen socks. Then a muffler around my neck and a heavy overcoat on top of the flannel pajamas. Pull a warm stocking cap over my head and cram my feet into rubber galoshes and finally I was ready for the big adventure.
We had a modern outhouse, in that it had an electric light that could be turned on from the back porch. I had, in my haste, neglected to close the snaps on the galoshes, so I picked up several pounds of snow that melted around my feet by the time I had covered the hundred foot distance to your destination.
Ahh... here you are at last. Soon I will have relief from the pressure that has been steadily increasing since the poo first alerted me to the fact that it wanted out. Quick: pull up the coat, drop the pajama bottoms, and plunk that ass down on that... ice-cold seat? Yes, the seat is the same temperature as the outside air.
Many questions ran through my mind. Just how cold is this going to be? Did my ass get damp with perspiration while I was trekking here? Will it freeze to the seat, making me an outhouse prisoner whose dead, frozen body will be discovered by a family member in a few hours? No more time for opining on possibilities -- I gritted my teeth and smacked my ass down.
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Ahhhh... relief... now wipe that ass and get back to that feather mattress. What? No paper. Luckily there is a Sears and Roebuck Catalog, kept primarily for reading material, that could be used for wiping in an emergency. I highly recommend the index pages -- the rest of the pages are glossy and only smear. Have you ever tried wiping your ass with wax paper?
I totally lost my faith in outhouses at about the age of twelve. One day I noticed my mother heating bucket after bucket of water and taking them out to a small outbuilding. A short time before she had carried a galvanized washtub into the same building.
I queried her as to what she was doing, and she answered, "Your father fell through the outhouse floor." My poor father had been preparing to take a dump when he spied a spider on the floor. Wishing to clear the building of a possibly dangerous arachnid, he had stomped on the beast. Unfortunately the floor was not structurally sound enough to withstand stomping.
Unfortunately for my father, we had a very deep pit under our toilet. The hole had been blasted down through bedrock with dynamite and was Dad's pride and joy. The neighbors, with their shallow pit toilets, would have to move them every few years, but ours was good forever.
Until the floor was rebuilt, we had to open the door and hang our asses over the threshold and let fly. I thought this was a dangerous practice as there was always a possibility of one losing one's balance and tumbling backwards into a deep shit pit. I started taking all my business to the woods behind our property, and to this day I prefer the alfresco poop above all others.
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| A Road Trip With Otis |
Jun 13, 2008 7:24 pm
Mood: Shitty, 229 Views | There it was, Tuesday night before Thanksgiving, and a friend named Tony was home from college with no plans.
I knew Tony only too well: the boy was trouble. He should have been a junior, but there had been an incident involving a stolen maintenance tractor, a broken-down dorm room door of a guy named Lance, and a fire all in one evening, and word had it around town and his school that Tony was on thin ice already. Tony, you see, had managed to drive the tractor into the dorm, knock down Chuck's door at one in the morning, drive the tractor back out, and set it on fire. Tony's father, a rich dude, had prevented him from being permanently ejected.
Tony hatched a plan. His folks had given him coupons of some sort for a two-day rental car with unlimited mileage and a free deal at Hampton Inn. He wanted to use them.
"Let's take a road trip tomorrow," he said. I readily agreed for a couple of reasons. For one thing, I was bored. For another, it was free. The next morning...
When I opened the door, it was obvious Tony hadn't been to bed that night. He was wearing the same unkempt clothes. He also had a mid-sized dog on a leash, which looked like some cross between an infected giant sea turtle and an embalmed prehistoric muskrat. It had a giant head, a red coat, a smaller body, and giant bony legs. And it smelled.
I stepped back from the door.
"Let's hit the road!" said Tony.
"What's with the dog"? I asked.
"Forget all about it. Said I'd keep it for a pal. His name's Otis."
Against my better judgment, the three of us hit the road two hours later in a blue Buick LeSabre with cloth velour seats. We looked like a couple of wigga drug dealers escaped from some reform school in Florida, headed to some run-down dog pound. I couldn't believe that I'd agreed to hit the road with these two corn pones, but I had absolutely nothing else to do.
The dog was riding shotgun in the back seat. Tony had announced that we were headed to "Wisconsin Dells, Baby," I'd been there myself a few times but not in many years, but how much trouble could we get into? Maybe it wouldn't be so bad.
Three hours later we rolled into The Dells and checked into a Hampton Inn (so far, we hadn't spent a dime of our own money). But we found out pretty quick that the Hampton Inn absolutely refused to let the dog into the hotel. Tony ignored them and snuck the dog into our room anyway.
The day actually wasn't that bad. We hiked down to the lake, walked at least five miles, and then retreated back to the hotel for a nap. The dog slept on the floor; at least he wasn't a barker. Everybody awoke a few hours later refreshed, ready to hit the town and see if we could meet some girls.
It was Tony who first suggested that we leave the dog in the room. I was against the idea, but it began to make sense. The dog basically just wanted to sleep and I hadn't heard him bark once. Once we left the room, he'd probably just lay down and crash out. But we needed to feed him, so Tony ran across the street and got him a couple of McDonalds double cheeseburgers, which the mutt inhaled in two gulps.
"That'll put him down for a few hours," said Tony. We both grabbed quick showers and hit the town. We managed to eat a decent dinner, walk around town, and wound up in a local redneck country dive. There was some band that wasn't bad, and we had a good time. I only drank one beer; needless to say Tony had quite a bit more. But I was pleasantly surprised when I managed to strike up a conversation with a girl at the next table. She'd come in there with a guy so I hadn't even tried to talk with her. But it turned out it was her brother. We danced a couple of songs, talked for a couple of hours (she was in college up in LaCross), and exchanged numbers.
Tony was pissed. For one thing, he was wearing the same filthy clothes from yesterday. For another, he just generally made a butt of himself wherever he went and no girls wanted much to do with him. You could tell he was really surprised I'd managed to get into a long conversation with a girl and strike up something fun. All in all, I was quite pleased with myself as we headed back to the hotel after one AM. Dang if I wasn't the cats meow! This was classic road trip material to tell my pals: a free trip and the phone number of a hot babe!
Tony pressed me for the details on the way back and I embellished a little bit. "Yeah," I said. "We're getting together over Christmas. She's coming to to meet my parents. We think it's love." I said all this with a straight face and you could tell Tony was really upset.
"I hope Otis is okay," said Tony. I hadn't thought of the dog once, but, being a dog lover, I'd grown fond of the old mutt, and I was looking forward to seeing him. Heck, this night couldn't get any better.
When we got back to the room and opened the door, the smell hit us like a donkey farting through silk. A wave of stink singed my nostrils. "What the...?" said Tony. The dog had shit everywhere. He shit on both beds. He shit in the bathtub. He shit on the carpet. He shit on the mat. He shit on the tile. I'm talking about squirt shit. Not the lumpy kind. The dog had managed to also shit on Tony' socks. It really looked like an elephant with diarrhea had soaked the entire suite for everything it was worth.
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One corner of one of the mattresses was completely gnawed off, as if somebody had smuggled an electric chainsaw into the room and gotten busy. All in all, the room was trashed. We were both in shock.
The dog was darn happy to see us. He came bounding up like nothing had happened -- like some sick uncle back from rehab.
An hour later, we'd made some inroads into cleaning it. But the poop wouldn't wipe up. It had soaked through everything like a giant, retching Bigfoot.
The next morning, we checked out. Tony was hoping they "wouldn't notice" but I knew better. Tony was headed for major trouble again. After all, the room had been in his parents' name. At least he wouldn't be in trouble with the university this time.
On the way home, the dog shit in the Buick for good measure.
I found out a month later that Tony's dad had cancelled his tuition and forced him to join the Army. The bill for the hotel room was over fifteen hundred dollars.
When we got back, Tony dropped Otis off at his friend's house. "I hope Otis wasn't any trouble," the owner said. "Has he done number two today"?
"Yeah," said Tony. "Several times."
We turned the Buick into the dealer and got a dirty look from the clerk after they figured out that it smelled like a flock of seaturds. I wound up seeing the girl during Spring Break and we did even start dating, although it didn't really turn out serious. The story of Otis is now pretty famous, although Tony's not around to get any credit for it. | |
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| Water Slide Chili Dog |
Jun 10, 2008 10:05 pm
Mood: Shitty, 305 Views | 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 piñata. 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.
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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. | |
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| The Key To A Man's Shart |
Jun 10, 2008 12:36 pm
Mood: Shitty, 330 Views | During high school summers I worked at a shoe factory. Nunn-Bush Wingtips were made at our factory. The work was hard. My slender frame was sculpted into a ripped mass of Grecian beauty after a mere month of the constant lifting and pushing.
Summer was the busiest time of the year (besides Christmas.)
My friend had a girlfriend who would stop by my machine and visit with me everyday. She would bring me food or a cool drink sometimes. Clearly, she liked me as more than a friend, but that is another story altogether. The sexual tension she carried with her often resulted in random acts of violence. Sometimes she would kick me for no reason. Other times, she'd punch me. Other times she would tackle me and pummel me or tickle me until I wheezed. Mind you, this was always spur of the moment -- NEVER expected.
She used to have a key chain -- it was two separate key rings secured together with a detachable clip. Each ring was covered in keys. She had keys to her house on one ring and the keys to her car on the other.
One day I was standing at the end of an aisle marveling at how busy the day was. I then heard someone calling my name, and sure enough, I saw my friend's lover coming towards me with an iced tea in one hand and her keys in the other. She was quite happy to see me and speedily walked my way. When she was within about seven feet, she reached her hand back and, in a style mimicking the method of a softball pitcher pitching a softball, hurled her keys at me full speed.
They flew directly into my testicles.
OUCH!
To add insult to mind-numbing injury, she threw them in such a way that each bunch of keys hit their own testicle. One ring for one testicle, the other ring for the other testicle. A shockwave of pain went up my spine and centered in my stomach, giving me cramps unparalleled by any cramping pain I have ever felt. She immediately noticed my despair and became concerned.
My stomach began to internally disintegrate. I began farting hot, wet, silent waves of pain. I was doubled over. My ass was steaming. What was happening? What sort of chain reaction had this David wrought on my Goliaths? The pain began to swell within my stomach and I thought I would explode. I pushed her aside and ran into the bathroom.
I locked myself in and sat on the throne, my injured boys dangling into the cool porcelain abyss. I exploded. Hot sauce ejected from my buttocks, backed by a torrent of hot gas which pushed out the feces at an even greater plug. Agonized, I involuntarily shat and shat and farted molten gas and lava as my balls silently wept below me.
Finally, I was spent. I was in pain still, but the diarrhea she had caused had subsided. Never before had I been hit in the nuts so hard that it triggered a bout of explosive diarrhea. With aching balls, I spent the rest of the day wincing and avoiding any unnecessary squatting.
I ended up dating this testicular assassin for three years.
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| Smear No Evil |
Jun 7, 2008 6:28 pm
Mood: Shitty, 320 Views | I am the least religious person you will ever know. I believe religion is the cause of most of the problems today, and probably the cover for most of the rest. It is therefore of no shame for me to admit that the greatest dump I've ever dumped was dumped into the toilet of the church my brother attends.
My brother got married a couple years ago. Out of familial respect (they're all Lutherans), I attended. However, we arrived fairly early, and I had that rare-but-cherished urge to use the loo. And there I received a big surprise: the men's bathroom in the church only had one stall. Luckily, it was empty.
The seat was fairly clean -- thank goodness for sanitary churchgoers -- so I easily sat and readied myself. I have a history of enormous, ass-ripping, monolithic shits that leave me either in tears or close to them, and I didn't expect anything else in so perfect a location as a church. To my expectations, this was the most prodigious, unholy mammoth to have ever been released from my bowels. I could feel it all the way up my rectum as the behemoth forced its way out, the crowning process of which left me gritting my teeth and resenting the fact that I had not brought any book or magazine to distract me from the pain.
I was halfway finished when someone entered. He got barely a step in the door before he was assaulted with the ungodly stench and, judging from what I saw of his feet from beneath the stall door, knocked backwards by the sheer magnitude of the effluvium. I was rather focused on the arduous effort of pushing, but I thought I heard something to the effect of "dear God", followed by a hasty exit.
Alas, that man was not the only person to enter the room at so unfortunate a time; but at least that man didn't hear the worst of it. The second person entered when the colossus was almost out. All I had to do was force my sphincter to remain open so the girth of the beast would pull itself free. The second man paused as the eldritch stench that had emanated from my bowels raped his senses, but remained long enough to hear my very audible gasp of relief as the creature slithered free of my anus, feeling like it dragged claws along my interior sphincter in a vain attempt to remain inside. I pictured a breaching whale coming back to slam sideways into the water. I felt the splash as the door to the bathroom once again slammed closed.
If I had been in possession of a knife at the time, I would have engraved two notches into the stall wall.
Surprisingly, the monstrous creation of my bowels had a surprisingly clean exit, aside from the splash. I had honestly expected blood, as the thing had taken me twenty minutes or so to expel, but there was no such thing. It only took a few paper wipes to conclude that it would be something to hold up to the U.S. military officials for an example of a clean exit strategy.
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It was at this point that the best part of the story occurs. I looked down at the demon I had defecated and knew immediately that it was not flushable. This thing was easily the length of my forearm and looked solid as a rock. The curves that it had to fit into the bowl were rigid, and I was reminded of horns as I inspected the numerous pointy extrusions that ran along its length. This thing, this nameless horror, would not go down without a fight -- and it was a fight I didn't have in me. (At least, not without a hanger or other instrument.) So, washing my hands, I proudly made my exit, the words "holy crap" ringing in my head. | |
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| We All Have Our Moments |
Jun 7, 2008 12:01 am
Mood: Shitty, 385 Views | My ex-wife and my mother were usually the ones who have poop trouble while on the road. The number of "unproductive" rest stops I make when traveling with them borders on ridiculous. For my mom, the whole time she is visiting is considered "traveling," which means her fecal factory shuts down for the first four or five days, until she resorts to extreme measures like drinking water, eating prunes, inserting suppositories, and downing all kinds of laxatives and liquid dynamite.
I, like my father, was blessed with the cast-iron stomach and a camel's bladder. But every once in a while, even I get the wide-eyed I-gotta-find-a-bathroom look.
In the mornings, my limit in the car is usually about one hour before I have to shit. Good thing I don't work too far from home. On the many occasions I've had to drive extended distances to customer sites in the morning, more often than not I would have to stop and find a poop palace within an hour of leaving the house.
My days are usually blissful. I take two or three dumps in the morning. If I get to the magic third crap before nine AM, I know it's gonna be a great day. Other times, though, I'm lucky to get one out before going to work. Those are the kind of days in which trouble is brewing in Poop City with a capital "P".
After a wedding a few years back, the in-laws, the ex-wife, and I were driving back to our hotel on I- near Beloit, WI. It was late fall and unusually dark that night. I was driving along and whistling when I felt the two-minute warning.
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"Unholy shit, Batman!" I thought. All the beer, booze, and rich food I partook in at the party must've reacted in my gut. And of course, there were no rest areas or fast food joints in sight.
The in-laws and the ex-wife are chatting along, totally unaware of what was transpiring. We were twenty or thirty minutes from the hotel, and I was squeezing the rosebud shut to keep from ruining my suit and the driver's seat. I let a few exits pass by, hoping to find someplace to stop, but it was pitch black everywhere and there was no hope in sight. "What kind of suburban interstate bullshit is this?" I wondered, as the pain and pressure intensified.
After two or three false alarms, I finally, and without a warning to my passengers, just pulled off the interstate. The chatting stopped immediately. "I gotta get out for a minute," I proclaimed. I ran out of the car to a strategic wooded area, dropped my drawers, and squatted. Ever ready for game day situations, I blasted the doo doo daiquiri into the leaves below without splattering on my clothes.
When I got back to the car, the chatty passengers, who couldn't make out what I was doing in the dark distance, thought I had puked. Yeah, like I would be driving if I were that drunk!
(It was a few years later when they finally figured out I had run out to the woods for a diarrhea appointment.)
An unholy odor and a horrible brown stain in that hallowed spot marks my historic stop. Perhaps it will be a memorial rest stop someday. That stretch of highway could sure use one! | |
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| The World Can Be A Dangerous Place |
Jun 5, 2008 4:52 pm
Mood: Pissy, 407 Views | In my early twenties I partied a lot with my drinking buddies. Along with two drinking buddies, I had devised a game we played when going from one bar to another. Rather than availing ourselves of the toilet when leaving a bar, we would waddle out the door like scalded penguins, with full bladders and play our little game to determine who bought the first round at the next bar. We had elevated the simple act of urination to the status of a sport: we would step into an alley to relieve ourselves and compete to see who could pee the highest up on a wall. Low man would buy the next round.
One of my buddies, a cowboy from Utah, had mastered the art of the "head squeeze." Jack was able to squeeze the head of his penis and fire a stream of urine to unprecedented heights. I have actually witnessed him piss on the roof of a one-story structure while both feet were firmly planted on the ground.
My other buddy, Fritz, was totally demoralized by Jacks abilities. Realizing he didn't stand a chance in the competition, he became distracted by a knothole in a fence enclosing a private dwelling. Fritz decided he would stick his weenie through this knothole, which was conveniently located at crotch height, and pee into someone's yard.
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The gods smiled on Fritz that night. Just before his organ of urination entered the knothole, there was a series of maniacal barks and much gnashing and snapping of huge fangs on the other side of the hole. If this huge Akita, German Shepard, or whatever, had just controlled itself for a split-second more, it could have dined on a prime American sausage . (It would not have been the full meal that would have been hanging from a John Holmes or a Long Dong Silver, but it would have been a worthwhile tidbit nonetheless.) | |
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| A Confrontation With Locked Doors |
Jun 4, 2008 9:17 pm
Mood: Shitty, 424 Views | 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?
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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. | |
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| Three Testicles |
Jun 2, 2008 9:40 pm
Mood: Shitty, 490 Views | It all started on an early Sunday morning. I was still in High School. I woke up, stretched, and realized I had to take a gigantic piss. So I stumbled into the bathroom, whipped it out, and started to pee. Idly scratching my balls, my blood froze as I felt something that was not there before. Something was horribly, horribly wrong.
I had three testicles.
Still peeing, flecks of urine flying every which direction, junk flapping in the breeze, I tore down the hallway ass-naked. My mom was standing at the kitchen counter, chopping vegetables for stew, when I came barreling into the kitchen.
"I need to go to the hospital," I began, dancing and holding my package. Of course, being the mother that she is, she wanted to know what was wrong. Finally, I broke down. "I need to go to the hospital because I have three balls."
Mom put her hands on her hips and frowned. I didn't have three testicles, she said. I was probably imagining it. It was only with much panicked protesting on my part that I was able to convince her to look. And there, lo and behold, I had three testicles.
In hysterics now, I dressed and she loaded me up into the car. Driving frantically and weaving perilously in and out of traffic, we finally arrived at the emergency room, where I was escorted into a room by an older nurse. I changed into those embarrassing hospital nightgowns and lay back on the table, feet flat and legs spread. She rubbed some sort of cold, slippery gel onto my balls and began to examine the rogue testicle.
It wasn't even that the nurse was attractive. She looked too much like a mom. But nonetheless, the nurse's incessant rubbing got to me, and I was fighting an erection. Down, boy.
I was concentrating so hard on remaining decent that I had failed to notice the pressure building in my gut. With the nurse a mere foot away from the supermassive black hole that is my anus, I ripped a fart that would go down in the record books as the MOST putrid smelling fart in history.
click to enlarge
My immediate response was to giggle hysterically. As I began to shake with laughter, my ass began to force out the remaining air in small bursts synced to my snickering. Pft. Pft. Pft. Pft. Pft. And with every pft, the nurse's front locks blew ever so slightly. Suddenly, the urge to bear down took over me, faster than I could think. Where gas had once harmlessly sounded its horn, thick, projectile diarrhea began to spurt.
And still, I giggled. The diarrhea continued to fire in spurts. My bowels and face contorted as I writhed in pain. Soft plops told me that the nurse and the floor were wearing my shit.
"I'm sorry," I choked out, tears of hysterical laughter and shame running down my face. The nurse, grimacing, left the room without a word. Several minutes passed while my steaming shit began to dry on my asscrack, all alone in an examination room.
I was beginning to plan my escape when an older, male doctor entered the room. Business-like, he wiped the shit from my ass with a wet-wipe. He poked and prodded for a few minutes before determining that my third testicle was actually a cyst. He sent me home to schedule surgery. As it turns out, the testicle shrunk on its own, and all seemed well and good.
Several days later, I was walking home from school when I saw these guys -- friends, but total dicks -- shoving this kid from my French class around. I convinced them to leave him alone, and the kid, Mike, and I, became friends. One day, we were playing basketball after school when his mom drove in. "Mike," she hollered, "can you and your friend help me with the groceries?"
Like the gentleman I am, I proceeded to open her trunk when, out of the car, stepped none other than the very nurse who had worn my diarrhea. The instant we made eye contact, I knew she remembered me. My face burned. I began to stammer some reason as to why I had to go home, when she put a motherly arm around me. She explained that there was a very strict patient confidentiality agreement, and that nobody would know what went on in the ER the previous week. I assured her that my third testicle was no longer plaguing me with its existence. I had some meatloaf and green beans, and went home, all was well.
When I stepped off the bus that morning, Mike literally hollered, announcing to every child within earshot: "Dude, you never told me you had three balls! And that you shit on my mom!"
I recently sold Mike a houseful of replacement windows, and he told me he was fucking my sister during High School.
Whatever..... works for me.
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