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The origin of my name
Posted on 9/11/15 at 8:52 am
Posted on 9/11/15 at 8:52 am
Last winter I was in town visiting family and friends. Myself, the wife, my kid, and my parents were all out at dinner at the Longhorn. Dinner wrapped up and I felt some pressure in my guts, but decided to wait until I got back to my parents' house to poo. This decision proved costly.
We had driven separately from my parents, so we went to our cars and began the trip back to their house on the south side of town. About halfway there, things began to happen inside me that forewarned of an imminent doo doo. It was coming, and it was coming soon. I told my wife, "I really have to poop, we have to get home soon." "You are gross." She really had no idea.
As we traveled what is typically a 15 minute drive, my concern and efforts to keep the poo inside me increased exponentially. Time seemed to slow down as I had to stop at what seemed like every traffic light on the way. The pressure in my intestines grew as my knuckles turned white grasping the steering wheel. Each stop induced an "oh my god" muttered under my breath and a deep breath and sigh. "You're being kind of dramatic," mentioned the wife. "You don't understand, I REALLY have to poo."
One mile from the house, waiting at a traffic light, all warning signs and alarms are going off inside me. I'm perspiring, cramping and clenching. Poop is going to come out of me, and it is going to come out of me quickly. At this point, it is mostly a straight shot to the parents' house. 2 four-way stop sign intersections, a couple of short turns and I am there. Almost home.
2/3rds of mile from the house, the first intersection. As I am coming to a stop, it is quite clear that we have an emergency situation. As the car slows, small, short repeating farts start coming out of me against my will. We are in the Danger Zone. My wife is becoming aware of what is really happening here, "Are you ok?". The sweat running down my red face answered her question. "I am not going to make it."
At this point, I have accepted the fact that making it to a familiar toilet is not really an option. I am most likely going to be pooping outdoors and I have to immediately find a spot to poop. The road I'm on has houses on the left and mostly field to the right, but where to stop? "I have to pull over." "Pull over there," exclaimed my wife.
A road into a subdivision was on the right. I turned the car and again had houses on the left and field to right of me. At this point, panic had set in, a decision had to be made. Now, I'm not one that believes in destiny, but out of no where, a small hill appeared. It looks as though it had been a pile of dirt, no more than 2 feet high, that had been left from a construction site. It would have to do.
She saw the hill first and pointed it out. I slammed the brakes of the car and through it into park. The sudden stop was not a good idea, for the forces on my body created by the sudden stop resulted in a shart. It had begun, and I was too late.
I leapt from the car and waddled to just behind the hill. The cold air provided some comfort to me, but not enough to relieve the agony I was feeling. I carefully, yet quickly pulled my pants and underwear to around my ankles and assumed a crab-walk position. And the poop did flow, oh my, how the poop did flow.
It was dark, but my offerings were quite evident on the ground. I took a moment to take a deep breath and notice the minivan that was driving past us. Oh, what they must have thought. I began to become more aware of my situation and started to think about the next steps when the second round came. I did a slight sideways shuffle to find a blank canvas to poop on. It was quite clear that this was the final round.
My wife rolled down her window and asks, "Are you ok?" It took me a moment to respond, as I struggled with the answer to this question. "I need something to clean myself with," I told her. "I'm bringing you a baby wipe."
I love my wife dearly, I'd be lost with out her, but for the love of Pete, she brought one, and only one, baby wipe. I explained to her, that more would be needed and she obliged. She did her best to mask the horror on her face, but it was quite clear, our relationship had changed.
With my wife back in the car, clean up began in earnest. (As a side note, baby wipes are fantastic to wipe your arse with.) Clearly, the underwear were not going back on. I removed my shoes, pants and underwear. The underwear were flung to the side, never to be seen again by me. A quick inspection of the pants revealed, miraculously, that no poop found its way into or on them. The pants went back on.
I rose from my makeshift latrine, and slowly walked back to the car, somewhat in shock. The rest of the drive home was quiet.
We had driven separately from my parents, so we went to our cars and began the trip back to their house on the south side of town. About halfway there, things began to happen inside me that forewarned of an imminent doo doo. It was coming, and it was coming soon. I told my wife, "I really have to poop, we have to get home soon." "You are gross." She really had no idea.
As we traveled what is typically a 15 minute drive, my concern and efforts to keep the poo inside me increased exponentially. Time seemed to slow down as I had to stop at what seemed like every traffic light on the way. The pressure in my intestines grew as my knuckles turned white grasping the steering wheel. Each stop induced an "oh my god" muttered under my breath and a deep breath and sigh. "You're being kind of dramatic," mentioned the wife. "You don't understand, I REALLY have to poo."
One mile from the house, waiting at a traffic light, all warning signs and alarms are going off inside me. I'm perspiring, cramping and clenching. Poop is going to come out of me, and it is going to come out of me quickly. At this point, it is mostly a straight shot to the parents' house. 2 four-way stop sign intersections, a couple of short turns and I am there. Almost home.
2/3rds of mile from the house, the first intersection. As I am coming to a stop, it is quite clear that we have an emergency situation. As the car slows, small, short repeating farts start coming out of me against my will. We are in the Danger Zone. My wife is becoming aware of what is really happening here, "Are you ok?". The sweat running down my red face answered her question. "I am not going to make it."
At this point, I have accepted the fact that making it to a familiar toilet is not really an option. I am most likely going to be pooping outdoors and I have to immediately find a spot to poop. The road I'm on has houses on the left and mostly field to the right, but where to stop? "I have to pull over." "Pull over there," exclaimed my wife.
A road into a subdivision was on the right. I turned the car and again had houses on the left and field to right of me. At this point, panic had set in, a decision had to be made. Now, I'm not one that believes in destiny, but out of no where, a small hill appeared. It looks as though it had been a pile of dirt, no more than 2 feet high, that had been left from a construction site. It would have to do.
She saw the hill first and pointed it out. I slammed the brakes of the car and through it into park. The sudden stop was not a good idea, for the forces on my body created by the sudden stop resulted in a shart. It had begun, and I was too late.
I leapt from the car and waddled to just behind the hill. The cold air provided some comfort to me, but not enough to relieve the agony I was feeling. I carefully, yet quickly pulled my pants and underwear to around my ankles and assumed a crab-walk position. And the poop did flow, oh my, how the poop did flow.
It was dark, but my offerings were quite evident on the ground. I took a moment to take a deep breath and notice the minivan that was driving past us. Oh, what they must have thought. I began to become more aware of my situation and started to think about the next steps when the second round came. I did a slight sideways shuffle to find a blank canvas to poop on. It was quite clear that this was the final round.
My wife rolled down her window and asks, "Are you ok?" It took me a moment to respond, as I struggled with the answer to this question. "I need something to clean myself with," I told her. "I'm bringing you a baby wipe."
I love my wife dearly, I'd be lost with out her, but for the love of Pete, she brought one, and only one, baby wipe. I explained to her, that more would be needed and she obliged. She did her best to mask the horror on her face, but it was quite clear, our relationship had changed.
With my wife back in the car, clean up began in earnest. (As a side note, baby wipes are fantastic to wipe your arse with.) Clearly, the underwear were not going back on. I removed my shoes, pants and underwear. The underwear were flung to the side, never to be seen again by me. A quick inspection of the pants revealed, miraculously, that no poop found its way into or on them. The pants went back on.
I rose from my makeshift latrine, and slowly walked back to the car, somewhat in shock. The rest of the drive home was quiet.
8
Posted on 9/11/15 at 8:57 am to Sthampton Crabwalker
Posted on 9/11/15 at 9:02 am to Sthampton Crabwalker
Xiao
Boiled Lobster
Trash Can
Sthampton Crabwalker
Boiled Lobster
Trash Can
Sthampton Crabwalker
Posted on 9/11/15 at 9:02 am to Sthampton Crabwalker
Your fascination with shite is fricked up.
Posted on 9/11/15 at 9:04 am to Sthampton Crabwalker
This is one of those stories that is supposed to end with "Jet Fuel Can't Melt Steel Beams".
Posted on 9/11/15 at 9:09 am to Sthampton Crabwalker
It's 6:00 AM here. I'm still sipping my first cup of joe and shaking the cob webs from my groggy mind.
I'm not reading all that shite.
I'm not reading all that shite.
Posted on 9/11/15 at 9:23 am to Sthampton Crabwalker
Cant believe that I read the whole post. That reminds me of my next story that I will share.
A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards.
It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.
We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however.
I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without too much concern.
Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...
Entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shite, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shite. I went to the normal stall. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my arse was reaching Biblical proportions. I began "The Move."
For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones arse toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shite at the exact same second that ones arse is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a ballet dancer.
A couple of weeks ago we decided to cruise out to Ryan's Steakhouse for dinner. It was a Wednesday night which means that macaroni and beef was on the hot bar, indeed the only night of the week that it is served. Wednesday night is also kid's night at Ryan's, complete with Dizzy the Clown wandering from table to table entertaining the little bastards.
It may seem that the events about to be told have little connection to those two circumstances, but all will be clear in a moment.
We went through the line and placed our orders for the all-you-can-eat hot bar then sat down as far away from the front of the restaurant as possible in order to keep the density of kids down a bit. Then I started my move to the hot bar. Plate after plate of macaroni and beef were consumed that evening, I tell you -- in all, four heaping plates of the pseudo-Italian ambrosia were shoved into my belly. I was sated. Perhaps a bit too much, however.
I had not really been feeling well all day, what with a bit of gas and such. By the time I had eaten four overwhelmed plates of food, I was in real trouble. There was so much pressure on my diaphragm that I was having trouble breathing. At the same time, the downward pressure was building. At first, I thought it was only gas which could have been passed in batches right at the table without too much concern.
Unfortunately, that was not to be. After a minute or so it was clear that I was dealing with explosive diarrhea. It's amazing how grease can make its way through your intestines far faster than the food which spawned the grease to begin with, but I digress...
Entering, I saw two sinks immediately inside the door, two urinals just to the right of the sinks, and two toilet stalls against the back wall. One of them was a handicapped bathroom. Now, normally I would have gone to the handicapped stall since I like to stretch out a bit when I take a good shite, but in this case, the door lock was broken and the only thing I hate worse than my wife telling me to stop cutting my toenails with a pair of diagonal wire cutters is having someone walk in on me while I am taking a shite. I went to the normal stall. In retrospect, I probably should have gone to the large, handicapped stall even though the door would not lock because that bit of time lost in making the stall switch proved to be a bit too long under the circumstances. By the time I had walked into the regular stall, the pressure on my arse was reaching Biblical proportions. I began "The Move."
For those women who may be reading this, let me take a moment to explain "The Move." Men know exactly what their bowels are up to at any given second. And when the time comes to empty the cache, a sequence of physiological events occur that can not be stopped under any circumstances. There is a move men make that involves simultaneously approaching the toilet, beginning the body turn to position ones arse toward said toilet, hooking ones fingers into ones waistline, and pulling down the pants while beginning the squat at the same time. It is a very fluid motion that, when performed properly, results in the flawless expulsion of shite at the exact same second that ones arse is properly placed on the toilet seat. Done properly, it even assures that the choad is properly inserted into the front rim of the toilet in the event that the piss stream lets loose at the same time; it is truly a picture of coordination rivaling that of a ballet dancer.
Posted on 9/11/15 at 9:31 am to Sthampton Crabwalker
Oh Randy...
Posted on 9/11/15 at 10:56 am to Sthampton Crabwalker
A shitty story from a shitty alter. My, how the OTB has fallen.
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