October 15, 2009

Why you wish you were me, Volume XXII

Yesterday I found myself winging my way to Northern Wisconsin. I scored a very cheap flight and I was not up to the 8 plus hour one-way drive. Remember, I have been sick -- it will be important later.

I arrived about 20 minutes early to my appointment and was sitting in the car checking messages etc. Suddenly, I felt that familiar twisting cramping rumble deep in my guts. I tried to deny it, the traveler's worst nightmare.*, **

I discussed my business with my customer, as my bowels twisted and gripped and squeezed like an anaconda in my intestines. Luckily, the fates kept the machinations silent. They would make me pay for this small gift later.

I made from the customer and to the rental car. I was in pain and needed to find a restroom stat. I had had some bouts of diarrhea during my illness last week, but nothing like this.

I drove couple blocks to a Dairy Queen I had seen coming into town. I ducked in the back door and into the one-holer designated "MEN". As I flipped on the light and locked the door, I was it by a coughing fit (remember I have just recovered from pneumonia?). It is difficult to concentrate on squeezing your ass cheeks together when you upper body is wracked with coughs. The sphincter is a tricky SOB, and just when my attention wandered for a mere second, it acted like its name sake; an asshole.

You cannot eat soup with a fork and the sphincter was not designed to hold liquids either. As I stumbled toward the toilet, my bowels erupted in a hot fecal explosion of Mt. St. Helens proportions. My pants were half off and I hovered over the seat as a brown rain of turd lava rained down.

I opened my eyes to a scene of devastation. There was shit all over the toilet, all over the seat, all over the floor, all in my tighty whities and on my pants and up my back. I settled onto the seat, crabs and germs be damned, as another explosion rocked the Dairy Queen men's room.

I shrugged out of my shoes, and tried to pull the filled underwear out of the pants without spilling more of the ass soup on my Dockers. I began the long tedious cleaning of the Dairy Queen men's room, myself and my clothing. The tightly whities brownies I buried in the trash. I used wet towels and most of the available ass wipe to clean the floor, bowl and seat. I got my self cleaned too. The pants had a spot about four inches around on the upper backside, that I could cover with my shirt tail. Somehow the front of my shirt tail was splattered with liquid shit the color of Georgia clay. I washed them as well as possible in the sink.

I used much of the soap and shrugged back into my coat and headed back to the rental. I drove to the nearest city searching for a place to get some clothing. The wet pants were uncomfortable on my bare ass.

I went into a Kohls in Manitowoc and grabbed some jeans, underwear and a cheap T-shirt. I felt as if all the shoppers were staring, my shit-stained shirt tail tucked in the front, the back left out to cover my backside. I changed in the car and headed into the store once again as my guts began to rumble once more. Had I driven, I could have just checked into a hotel. I considered it anyway.

After I stunk up the Kohls men's room with a smaller crapfest, I packed my dirty clothing into the Kohl's sack, wrapping everything well. Luckily I had not brought my laptop, so I could put the sack into my briefcase. I said a silent prayer that the TSA assholes would choose today to search my bag.

I made it home around 10:30 without further incident. I took a quick shower and threw my clothing into the washer.

Let me use this opportunity to apologize to the fine employees of the City redacted Dairy Queen.


* Except maybe waking up minus one kidney in a hotel bathtub filled with ice. **

** Or discovering the hot chick you picked up in the bar at the Airport Holiday Inn in Portland is really a Dude. Not that that has happened to me, but I hear things.

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