Fudgey
Master of Disaster
Have you guys ever been on a construction site for an extended period of time? I did a few years back, and it was quite an adventure. Any other funny stories would be appreciated!
It was the summer of 2000, and I was working on a construction site in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I was a junior engineer and had a lot of fun while learning a thing or two on the job.
I have always had a very fiber and protein rich diet, and because of it, I'm one of the chosen poopers. I go three times a day, with no grunting or straining, just quick and easy downloads. So naturally, I fell victim to my own sense of superiority and complacency.
During the summer, I enjoyed many a meals at the haven of fine dining that is Ponderosa, where for $7.99 I had unlimited access to a questionable buffet, as well as sad, burnt steak. I love red meat, and I decided to dig in to this fine piece of culinary art. As I chewed through its interesting, yet rubbery texture, I felt, no, heard, a slight gurgle from deep within me. I dismissed this, being the condescending, complacent slob that I was.
After burying that steak under many heaping portions of pasta and salads, I returned to my concrete inspecting duties back at the site. As I stood, leaning against my truck while drinking a cup of coffee, I passively took in the sights and sounds of Grand Rapids' central business district. Did I mention I also started dipping that summer. All the cool kids on the site were doing it. Soon I had a nice chow going, and was debating whether my time would be better served by positioning myself near the entrance of Grand Rapids Community College and cat-calling and wolf-whistling to the cute female students, when I suddenly felt a painful knot in my stomach. I was surprised. No, I was nonplussed. How could this be? I mean, I only occasionally have stomach issues. The knot soon revealed itself to be urgent, an unannounced call of nature. I realized that the potent combination of stimulants I'd partaken in had activated my wastewater pumps, and they needed to discharge.
My only option was the port-a-potty, so I staggered into it. I hastily dropped my jeans and boxers to my ankles and assumed the hovering position. Even though preoccupied, my mind picked up the noxious and unsavory mixture in the plastic tank below me, the tank over which my innocent buns were hovering. Believe me, seeing human feces of all textures, colors, and consistencies with wads of toilet paper and cigarette butts all floating around in a blue liquid, in perfect harmony and coexistence like seniors at a retirement community pool on a Sunday afternoon, was quite mesmerizing. A sphincter-splitting fart departed my *** first, next a powerful jet of methane that exited so hard and fast that I bet it split my *** lips like a bugle heralding the onset of war. I bit my lip and endured the pain, and this is when my real trouble started. The port-a-potty had hastily and carelessly been placed where it now sat, and two of the foremen had seen me make a hurried beeline to it. My new plastic coffin lurched slightly to one side and my heart stopped. "What the ****?" was the philosophical question that sprung to my lips. What the ****, indeed. I heard barely muted strains of laughter and the booth lurched to another side. I placed my palms against the walls and steadied myself.
Nothing happened. For a second, the whole world stood still... and then, a mighty and angry reverse-volcano of **** flooded out of me. It was liquid, it was angry, and it roared from my rear end like the Yellow River during monsoon.
The fuckers outside shook the potty again, and I tried very hard to steady myself and not slip. To slip and fall in that disgusting chamber, or get trapped in the extra large hole on top of the tank would be worse than death. However, I am not an expert in ****-time-space continuum navigation. I tried very hard to position myself over the moving target, but I could not coordinate my shitting to the rhythmic lurching of the potty, and so my drainage slopped around, painting the blue plastic with a dark, rich hue. My bowels emptied faster than the Silverdome after another home team loss. I started yelling profanities at the *******s. But they were not deterred. They knew they had me. And they were going to make the most of it.
My discharge was now sporadic, the angry torrent replaced by occasional dollops of watery poo. Finally, I willed myself to stop being greedy and cut off my pooping. But how the **** was I going to wipe now, with the box rocking every which way? I swallowed my manly pride and did what every red-blooded American does in a moment of crisis: I yelled out and threatened them with a complaint to the safety officer. This seemed to have worked for a bit. They stopped and pondered my threat. I pulled up my pants, dingleberries and all, and bolted out of there. I was greeted by a small crowd of hysterically laughing construction crew.
The story ends predictably - I spent the summer being labeled as the port-a-potty punk. The desecration I'd brought upon the interior of the potty became the stuff of legends. I never once went back to Ponderosa. I wasn't man enough to eat there. And to this day I cringe when I see a port-a-potty.
It was the summer of 2000, and I was working on a construction site in Grand Rapids, Michigan. I was a junior engineer and had a lot of fun while learning a thing or two on the job.
I have always had a very fiber and protein rich diet, and because of it, I'm one of the chosen poopers. I go three times a day, with no grunting or straining, just quick and easy downloads. So naturally, I fell victim to my own sense of superiority and complacency.
During the summer, I enjoyed many a meals at the haven of fine dining that is Ponderosa, where for $7.99 I had unlimited access to a questionable buffet, as well as sad, burnt steak. I love red meat, and I decided to dig in to this fine piece of culinary art. As I chewed through its interesting, yet rubbery texture, I felt, no, heard, a slight gurgle from deep within me. I dismissed this, being the condescending, complacent slob that I was.
After burying that steak under many heaping portions of pasta and salads, I returned to my concrete inspecting duties back at the site. As I stood, leaning against my truck while drinking a cup of coffee, I passively took in the sights and sounds of Grand Rapids' central business district. Did I mention I also started dipping that summer. All the cool kids on the site were doing it. Soon I had a nice chow going, and was debating whether my time would be better served by positioning myself near the entrance of Grand Rapids Community College and cat-calling and wolf-whistling to the cute female students, when I suddenly felt a painful knot in my stomach. I was surprised. No, I was nonplussed. How could this be? I mean, I only occasionally have stomach issues. The knot soon revealed itself to be urgent, an unannounced call of nature. I realized that the potent combination of stimulants I'd partaken in had activated my wastewater pumps, and they needed to discharge.
My only option was the port-a-potty, so I staggered into it. I hastily dropped my jeans and boxers to my ankles and assumed the hovering position. Even though preoccupied, my mind picked up the noxious and unsavory mixture in the plastic tank below me, the tank over which my innocent buns were hovering. Believe me, seeing human feces of all textures, colors, and consistencies with wads of toilet paper and cigarette butts all floating around in a blue liquid, in perfect harmony and coexistence like seniors at a retirement community pool on a Sunday afternoon, was quite mesmerizing. A sphincter-splitting fart departed my *** first, next a powerful jet of methane that exited so hard and fast that I bet it split my *** lips like a bugle heralding the onset of war. I bit my lip and endured the pain, and this is when my real trouble started. The port-a-potty had hastily and carelessly been placed where it now sat, and two of the foremen had seen me make a hurried beeline to it. My new plastic coffin lurched slightly to one side and my heart stopped. "What the ****?" was the philosophical question that sprung to my lips. What the ****, indeed. I heard barely muted strains of laughter and the booth lurched to another side. I placed my palms against the walls and steadied myself.
Nothing happened. For a second, the whole world stood still... and then, a mighty and angry reverse-volcano of **** flooded out of me. It was liquid, it was angry, and it roared from my rear end like the Yellow River during monsoon.
The fuckers outside shook the potty again, and I tried very hard to steady myself and not slip. To slip and fall in that disgusting chamber, or get trapped in the extra large hole on top of the tank would be worse than death. However, I am not an expert in ****-time-space continuum navigation. I tried very hard to position myself over the moving target, but I could not coordinate my shitting to the rhythmic lurching of the potty, and so my drainage slopped around, painting the blue plastic with a dark, rich hue. My bowels emptied faster than the Silverdome after another home team loss. I started yelling profanities at the *******s. But they were not deterred. They knew they had me. And they were going to make the most of it.
My discharge was now sporadic, the angry torrent replaced by occasional dollops of watery poo. Finally, I willed myself to stop being greedy and cut off my pooping. But how the **** was I going to wipe now, with the box rocking every which way? I swallowed my manly pride and did what every red-blooded American does in a moment of crisis: I yelled out and threatened them with a complaint to the safety officer. This seemed to have worked for a bit. They stopped and pondered my threat. I pulled up my pants, dingleberries and all, and bolted out of there. I was greeted by a small crowd of hysterically laughing construction crew.
The story ends predictably - I spent the summer being labeled as the port-a-potty punk. The desecration I'd brought upon the interior of the potty became the stuff of legends. I never once went back to Ponderosa. I wasn't man enough to eat there. And to this day I cringe when I see a port-a-potty.
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