We've All Been There: A shitty Story

Originally Published: December 27, 2003 @ 08:37 EST

October seventeenth, two thousand three, being the day after Brooke’s birthday. We are somewhere between Brooke’s house and the mall parking lot that the food from dinner kicks in. We had had breaded ravioli, dipping it in marinara sauce at our leisure. Brooke’s dad insists that marinara is the same as “regular” tomato sauce, but we know better. The food is delicious to the degree that I eat more than I probably would have otherwise. Normally binging like that is not a problem for me, but magick is in the air tonight. As the building with the cut-thru parking lot that borders on the mall comes into sight, there is a low rumbling in my bowels. It is as if my large intestine is saying, sotto voce, “I gonna fuck wit chou f’you don’t heeds my warning.” (Yeah that’s right, my large intestine speaks ebonics. What of it? You should be glad it’s not my small intestine talking, that bastard’s only form of communication is writing in Sanskrit. I’m sure you know how much having one’s small intestine write on itself hurts. I’m sure it’s dizzying to think about how one goes about reading such writing). Walking down the winding hill of the parking lot’s entrance, a bus flies by us. Realizing that we’d be better off catching the bus when it comes back out to the street, my Brooke and I turn on heel and run back to the stop at the corner of Madison Avenue and some cool-ass old car. As we stand there, I pull two dollars out of Brooke’s wallet and I feel the rumblings again. I begin to have a sense of the fear, not so much the loathing, that was to come later. Turning to Brooke, grinning nervously I say, “I really have to go to the bathroom,” and then “as soon as we get to Chris’ place, I’m taking a really huge shite.” To which my darling Brooke replies, “Why don’t you just go in the bushes there, (you’re a man, isn’t that what you do)?” Clearly, this would get ugly if I made such a daring attempt. Shitting out what feels like a thanksgiving turkey with all the trimmings, in broad dusklight, squatted in some poor bastard’s yard? I don’t think so baby. We board the bus and I feel like my ass is going to explode.

A dank hot wetness has developed in the area of my brown eye. I think to myself, this must be what it feels like to be an aroused woman, though not quite in exactly the same way. Clenching as tightly as I can, I hope desperately that I wont lose my composure and pain this bus brown with sweet ass gravy. I look to Brooke for some support. She takes my hand and smilingly says, “I love you.” Yeah, you wont love me if I explode all over this buss. Well, maybe not as much, or at the very least, you’ll think that I stink as a human being. Buckled over, I stare at the unruly pattern on the adjacent seats, and my kidneys begin to drum out the beat of Strong Bad’s techno song. I’m beginning to worry that I’ll leave a stain on this seat an no one will be able to ride the bus for a year. What oh what didst I do to thee Merde, oh Goddess of the shit?! Was it not just yesterday that I thrice visited your porcelain abode, making a mighty offering each time? This was not enough for you? Are you crazed and craving unending dookie for your lofty consumption?

As we pass the prisons, Bridgeport Correctional Facility to the left, Central High School to the right, I feel like I am being watched. I swear it, those hulkingly squat buildings are staring at us with blackened windows for eyes. Laughing, all of them, at my misfortune. Trapped on the slowest-moving bus in Bridgeport, with the shits coming faster than one of them three dollar, me-love-you-long-time whores, as featured in the film Platoon! I brace myself against the seatback, using my hands at my sides to hover above the seat. Somehow this posture makes things better, relieves some of the physical pressure, if not the metaphorical and psychological. Every jolt and stop is as a punch to the gut, an attempt by some heavenly artist to squeeze out some brown paint for the application of happy little trees to his boring canvas of less-than-desirable line quality. The closer our smoke-spewing chariot draws to the train station, the slower it goes. We catch every last red light and magical Riders of Rohan get on or off at the fucking corner of every this and each that! I think about screaming in agony, or maybe ecstacy. Could this be an ass orgasm? I’ve already compared it to feminine wetness, so lets just break this boundary as well. My ass is about to come the big spit and splatter-paint my dearest with doo doo most brown. We pull into Platform A and I feel like I’m returning home after being away for a terribly long time at some sort of No-Poop-Allowed concentration camp for kids who shit their pants. Entering the hub of the bus depot, I find myself staring at the glowingly beauteous Men’s Room door. Time to enter my palace and—Wait, what the fuck? Restroom Hours?! 6AM to 7PM, fuck, fuck mother fuck noise, noise, noise. I’m about to drop this load in a nearby garbage can, or better yet in the middle of the room! Merde you bitch, cursing me so! What terrible luck. Run Run Run, mount the stairs to the adjoined train station. Why the hell is this thing so far up in the sky? Didn’t they ever take the increasing need to move one’s bowels into consideration when they designed this station? Swish, Swish, Squish, and that isn’t a sound being made by my pants, but rather from inside of them…I better be imagining that sound. Jesus, can Brooke hear this? The whole fucking world must hear this awful din issuing form my ass.

At last, victory, someone had even propped the door open—clearly my arrival was anticipated. I run all the way to the back nether-regions of the crap-pink men’s room. I fly to the throne and somehow manage to plunk down my ass, drop my pants, and close and lock the door simultaneously. Fwoopawoopashoop, plooplooppopslip, shit shit shit drip drip. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Staring downwards at my lap, I notice something very odd. As if feeling like this shit stream wouldn’t rocket me into the ceiling weren’t bad enough, something awful has happened to my wee Donny Dublin. Have you ever seen a grown man’s penis fully retract? No? Well neither had I, until this point. Let me tell you friend, for a moment, I revisited the hour and a half of my life before I was circumcised, and it wasn’t pretty. How the hell do you pee with this thing? The configuration is all messed up. Microsoft must have designed this. No matter, I’m sure you’ll return to full potency after we’ve taken care of darkest Mordor here in the toilet. We just need a little bit o’ Gandalf the White from the giant dispenser here to the left, and we’ll be on our merry w—what? Holy fucking christing jesus christ. There’s no toilet paper. I’m going to shit my elf—Wait, that’s right, I already have. (Referring to one’s ass as “elf” is all the rage these days. Very poopular in the land where I come from. You should try it sometime. People will give you the strangest looks you’ve ever gotten). Alright Kevin, you’re almost free, it’s only gonna take about thirty seconds of mission impossible to get you to that other stall. Why the hell was this bathroom designed with five urinals in between the two stalls?! As soon as I hear the clip clop of the last remaining patron exiting the boom boom room, I cup my manhood and run for that stall with all my might. Taking god-like strides like these, I could win the Boston, Los Angeles, and New York Marathons, all before getting arrested for indecent exposure. Ah, Gandalf. Have you met my elf? He’s no Legolas, but you to are about to get very intimate. Wiping has never felt this good, and it probably never will again.

For posterity’s sake, I do not wash my hands as I exit. Then, thinking better of it, and citing that my girlfriend is waiting outside, I run back and scour them for five minutes.

Thank you, and good night.

This has been a Nilzero production.

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