Luckiest Day Of My Life
It's important to note that the day before the Luckiest Day Of My Life I had the pleasure of devouring some Thai food: a crazy-hot beef salad and a tongue-raping squid salad. Magnificent. Then, later that night, just before bed, I decided on a big ol' honkin' bowl of pasta to help me sleep better.
Excellent choice.
If you haven't noticed yet, my head consists primarily of cement.
Next day, I got up, jumped in the shower, ran out the door, picked up a cup of coffee and whipped around town doing errands, finally stopping at the video store to chug the rest of my coffee and pick up a two dollar rental of the Ghost and Mrs. Muir starring Rex Harrison and Gene Tierney. As I walked up to the check-out counter, a vicious intestinal cramp set off an alarm bell in doodie town that told me I had maybe four or five minutes to get to a bathroom.
It was serious. I needed to act fast. My apartment is about five minutes from the video store and I felt I could make it in time, although I also felt I might be fooling myself because just above my tightly clenched cheeks, a bubbling cauldron of Thai molten lava scorched the flesh across my inner anal walls, and just behind that I had a grapefruit-sized clump of pasta pushing it all through.
My world was about to get real messy and my job was to reduce the collateral damage.
I sprang over to the check out and placed my rental on the counter with obvious immediacy, but it was lost on the delusional clerk-dude, who was locked in a dull conversation with a dull woman that he thought might fuck him, but I know will never fuck him. Oh, she'll talk to him all day long, but she'll never fuck him. She'll use her charm to flatter his ego and fill the afternoon with the sound of her own voice, but she'll never fuck him. I mentally willed my thoughts into his brain. Hey there, poor delusional clerk-dude, you think you could maybe pull the ripcord on that fatal drop and slip that hopeful crank back into its tomb for another six months or so and, oh I don't know, maybe CHECK ME THE FUCK OUT!
Although I was polite enough to let him wrap up his conversation with the woman who will never fuck him, I did attack his eyes with a look that a dog gives you when he jumps onto your chest in the middle of the night and seems to say, "Open door NOW!"
I tried to look normal but I'm sure I had a phony, weird, desperate smile on my face and sweat dripping off my eyebrows and a spine that was slowly curling into the letter S. I had also begun to emit a low, grunting sound as I strained not to give in and just totally blow ass right there in front of everybody on line at the video store, just completely lose it, throw in the towel and release the package, just bend over, grab my ankles, shout out some expletives and then blast out a cannon-load of unholy mud like an Exlax-chewin' Yosemite Sam, and then, I guess, crumble to my knees and sob or laugh or meow like a cat or lie on my back and make poop angels or do whatever people do after they soil themselves in public.
I don't even remember what anyone was talking about while I pushed my movie across the counter because their lips were moving too slowly and nothing was happening in real time anymore and the store was spinning around me and I was going completely out of my mind.
The delusional clerk-dude finally took my money, handed me back the movie, and asked me if I wanted a bag. I ignored the question and charged the door like a football player in the 1920s, with a leather helmet and a stiff left arm leading the way. But I pushed the wrong door and almost put my hand through the glass, which caused everyone in the store to turn and see who the dork was. I tried to say something funny to cover for it but I think I blurted out, "What good's a door if ya can't open it?" and then pushed through the other door like some crazy old sweating lunatic who smells funny, barks out nonsense and rents movies like The Ghost And Mrs. Muir.
I stumbled onto the sidewalk and then felt the first quiver of a cheek that soon wouldn't be able to hold back the looming storm. I needed to quick-step it. The cramping had increased and by the time I got near my car I was almost bent in half, as though I were looking for something on the ground or working on my Groucho.
I got in, started it up and slammed it into drive, but I knew I was doomed. About 20 seconds into the ride home..I just let go. I had to. There was no choice. The knotting in my groin and sphincter had become absolutely unbearable and I truly felt that if I were to hold on for even 5 seconds more I would rupture myself or lock an intestinal muscle into some strangulated position, and then, at that point, I may as well just take a left and drive straight to the hospital because now I have a hernia, as well as a big, brown, exploding howdoyoudo for my doctor once he pops that sphincter muscle back into place. Wow, there's a nasty little crime scene, huh? CSI's David Caruso could show up, looking tough and kneeling down and dragging his digits through my turd trails and taking a sniff and looking tough and then standing up and strolling over to his car and looking tough again and then eyeballing the perimeter for another place to stand around and look tough some more.
Anyway, I let some go. Right there in my car on the exit ramp of the 170 while driving 45 miles an hour. Maybe about a handful of spillage, maybe more. Sure seemed like more. And it was not as big a relief as I thought it would be. I still had to go but just not quite so badly. The smell was overwhelming. I used my left foot to elevate my bottom, attempting to keep the pool of sludge in my pants and away from the seat of the car.
I remember driving across someone's front lawn. I may have run over a swing set too, I don't know. Dude, I had a thermo-Bangkok erupto-load splashing around in my trousers so I think I can be given some leeway for behavior.
Pulling into the underground parking garage, I scanned the area to see if anyone was about. All clear. I pulled into my spot and tried to figure out what to do next. I couldn't just get out of the car and walk up to my apartment because all the lava would pour down my leg and onto the ground, leaving a long, clear trail of crazyman-scat leading up to my door. No, that wouldn't do at all.
I remembered I had two shirts in the trunk. I looked around, saw no one, then opened the driver's side door, grabbing as much of my pants as I could pull up in front, attempting to keep the puddle of steaming dumper-chud in the butt pocket of my pants. I waddled to the trunk, grabbed the shirts and a piece of plastic I found, and waddled back to the driver's side, hoping against all hope or logic or fate that nobody would come by, that I could actually pull this off without being seen.
I carefully opened my pants and used the shirts to clean out as much as I could but it was all over the place, running down the back of my legs and into my shoes and there was no way to do it cleanly. It was everywhere. Horrifying. I used the plastic to wrap the shirts and then toss them into the trash but it really didn't do much good. The only consolation would be that I wouldn't leave a trail.
Now I just had to do it. I had to walk up to my apartment. I couldn't take my pants off and I had nothing to wrap around my ass so I just had to bite the bullet and walk up to my apartment with my pants generously soaked in my own feces, and hope I don't run into anyone.
Have you ever had a homeless guy who just crapped his pants walk by you and had that thundering wall of odor hit you, that crippling funk that could knock a fat buzzard off a shit wagon?
That's what I had going for me right then.
I don't embarrass very easily but the notion of meeting someone in that state genuinely terrified me.
I waddled through the parking garage, limped up the stairs to my door, stuck the key in the lock, opened the door...and then closed it behind me without a single witness, and THAT is why it was..
The Luckiest Day Of My Life.
Copyright 2007 John Bizarre
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