My Shitty

Like every good story this one is about a girl. Okay, I stole that line from Spiderman, but it works for the purposes of my story. It was my girlfriend’s birthday, but first let’s back up.

The entire week prior to this special day we had been planning on going out to dinner, an activity that we seldom get to do, considering we are both students and are poor as shit. This restaurant also happened to be holding an open mike, and I was planning on playing one of her favorite songs. I had learned that week just for this occasion.

I had managed to scrounge up some money, as I was planning on taking her to our favorite restaurant in town. When the day did arrive for our dinner date, I found myself recuperating from a night of unhealthy eating and indulging. My stomach was showing signs of a revolt. The familiar gurgling, the hot flashes, and the cramping made themselves known around four p.m. “Okay,” I thought to myself, “at least this is happening now, and by the time dinner rolls around there won’t be an issue.” However, my bowels had other plans. They refused to finish what they had started, and I found myself released from their clutches after a few gaseous outbursts. (By the way, I am very experienced with stomach bombing. I know that what begins must sooner or later come to fruition, and this is why I delayed our dinner as long as humanly possible.)

Finally, she looked at me with that look that can make me do just about anything and said, “We don’t have to go to dinner, you know. I’m happy just spending time with you.” At that moment I realized the time had come – it was do or die.

“We’re going!” I said confidently, but all the while I was thinking, “Please let dinner go well…”

When we got to the restaurant everything felt normal. I checked my phone to see the time: T minus forty minutes until open mike. I am subject to nerves, anxieties, and panic in regard to my stomach, so as I was drinking my water and ordering food – and thinking about my girlfriend and the song I was trying to remember the words to – I was really focused on my stomach.

When our food arrived all thoughts of my previously gurgling passenger left me, if only for a brief moment. My only thought then became, “Damn, that grilled chicken breast sandwich with roasted red peppers, mozzarella cheese, and lettuce on garlic bread sure smells amazing!” Perhaps this is why I did not pace myself; I devoured half of the sandwich before my lady had started in on the substantial portion of her dinner. I was beginning to tear into the second half when my gurgling passenger began to stir. Immediately I stopped chewing what was in my mouth, knowing that anymore would make me ill.

Of course, this hyper-awareness only pushed me toward the edge, and as Hunter S. Thompson once said, “There is no honest way to explain it, because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.” I am no exception. As soon as I started focusing on my internal revolt, the hot flashes began. A cold sweat began beading on my forehead. I looked at my lovely lady but there was nothing she could do.

“Excuse me, I’ll be right back. I’m not feeling well,” I said, and hurried to the bathroom.

I enjoy my privacy above all other things in the bathroom, because when I’m in there I do whatever necessary to alleviate the suffering. Often, when in the throes of a particularly unpleasant poo, I will find myself removing articles of clothing so as not to get them sweaty and to feel less…hindered? This was such an occasion. As foul as it sounds, what choice did I have? That constricted feeling came over me.

I had just satisfactorily relieved myself of the burden of my shirt when came the first rattle at the door handle. Panic set in. I was thankful that I had remembered to lock the door. I had just settled back into one of the more painful ejections of poo that I have ever experienced when another attempt to get in was made. This time, the whole door shook with what can only be described as fury. “Great,” I thought aloud, “I’ve been in here too long…” As soon as I could stand I got up and looked long and hard at myself in the mirror, knowing that if I gave up my throne now, I would not be able to reclaim it with dignity later. However, when my girl popped into my head, I knew there was only one thing to do. I went back to the table and found her there, plate clean. Mine was half-full, the second half of the sandwich waiting for me.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Yeah but let’s just get out of here,” I replied.

When we got back to the house I picked up my guitar and player her song for her. While the night was not a total loss, it is up there on my list of embarrassing movements.

Poop Report

I had split up with my girlfriend a couple of weeks ago, and I was feeling down when a good friend called and invited me out to the local pub. “Great!” I thought, “I could use some relief and friendship.” It was not long before we chatted up two alluring young women at the bar. One thing the led to another, and before long we were dancing and drinking way too much.

It didn’t take much persuasion for “Sarah” to invite me to her apartment. When we got there, we flopped on the couch and exchanged niceties until she leaned over and whispered a proposition in my ear.

“Yes!” I cried. I stood up and she divested me of my pants and underwear and began to give me, um, er, oral ministrations. My legs were shaking so much that I had to sit on the couch. Her expertise had me on the edge for a long time. Finally, the ministrations reached a crescendo, and we disengaged.

After a while, I dressed. It was then, with rising horror, that I saw a shit stain on “Sarah’s” beige couch, exactly where I had been squirming a few minutes before. The stain was about half an inch wide and maybe four inches long. I immediately grabbed a pillow and positioned it over the stain, hoping this would give me time to think what to do. Should I tell her, or try to escape unnoticed? Should I beg for forgiveness and clean it up?

She came back into the living room and remarked, “That pillow doesn’t go there.” I recognized in her a neat and clean freak, and felt a rising wave of nausea as she grabbed the pillow.

She shrieked and the pillow fell from her hands. “Was it you who made this stain?” she implored. I knew right then I had to confess.

“No, it was your dog that did it.”

“I don’t even have a fucking dog!”

“Yes, it is mine,” I allowed.

“Well, then clean it up, for fuck’s sake!” she shouted.

“Alright,” I croaked, “Give me a toothbrush and some Lysol.”

Well, I scrubbed the stain and some of it was coming off; but shit on beige? Good luck. “This is the best I can do,” I moaned. Soon, I was banished from the apartment and onto the street.

Several weeks later, I saw her dancing and drinking with a new guy. “Heh,” I thought, “he`ll probably soil the other side of the couch. Great revenge!”

Poop Report