Fudgey
Master of Disaster
I recently had an ear infection and was given the antibiotic Keflex to take to clear it up. I went to Wal-Mart about four hours after I had taken the first dose and had no idea I needed to do anything—meaning poop. And out of nowhere, while I was mid-step, I just shat myself right in the Lawn and Garden department. Didn't fart or anything. **** just fell out my ass.
After hauling my soggy ass to the men's room, I go in a stall, I unbuckle my belt, pull down my jeans, and let loose. My eyes close briefly, as I become aware of the inevitable, and then I stare down at a sizzling brown blob anchored between my legs, which are ensconced in my jeans. This it it. I slump in momentary defeat while my sphincter kicks into overdrive, gushing liquid poo, gush after gush, until the last wave of hydration leaves my throat dry and my body clammy. Matters do not improve; the acidity from the poo is eating away at the hemorrhoids around my *******. I know my ass cleaning will be painful to the point of dabbing instead of wiping, and painful it is, adding insult to injury.
I have some cleaning to do.
I look at the toilet paper dispenser with loving eyes: It’s a commercial dispenser that holds a large paper roll that could wipe all the butts from Los Angeles to Houston I start to dab-pat the infected area in my jeans, removing the first layer. I then take my jeans off and raise my body over the toilet.
But still there is the reality that I have **** MY PANTS! So I stand there, naked from the waist down, dipping toilet paper in clean bowl water and doing what a good son should do -- clean up like a civil being. If you can say one good thing about me, it is that my mother taught me manners, and this teaching extended to cleaning a soiled public toilet seat to the best of my abilities. One doesn’t get to write that last line too often.
I sit back down on the toilet because my bowels are not finished. My bowels, in a punishing way, are making it clear what I have done and how I have mistaken their power, influence, and ability to dole out retribution. I hear someone enter the restroom. He isn’t here long. When I regain some semblance of sphincter control, I wrap my jacket around my bare bottom and emerge from the stall with my jeans.
At the wash counter sit two cloth towels and a spray bottle of disinfectant. Whoever comes in is present a blunt message: You ****? You clean.
The hand-washing area looks like it was designed for a pants-shitting accident. There are two sinks, two paper roll dispensers, holes on both ends of the table for trash, and ample table space on which to scrub. I don’t waste any time. I tuck my jeans inside out and lay them out for a pat bath. I lather my hands with green soap, take one of the courtesy cloth towels that were left by mystery man, and go for it. By this time, my mind is spinning in fuzzy neurotransmissions and a surreal time warp. Am I actually cleaning **** from my jeans? Since I have no other alternative, I put the soaked jeans back on and high-tail it out of there.
I headed home and prepared a hot bath with plenty of capfuls of Dr. Bronner’s Peppermint Soap while I perform a second round of jeans-cleaning in the sink. As I let them soak, I immerse myself in the luxury of cleansing. With my body tingling with the freshness of peppermint, I emerge from the tub with perspective on life: I’m not dead; I’m not impoverished; I’m relatively sane; I am human; and I **** my pants. So f$&%ing what?
After hauling my soggy ass to the men's room, I go in a stall, I unbuckle my belt, pull down my jeans, and let loose. My eyes close briefly, as I become aware of the inevitable, and then I stare down at a sizzling brown blob anchored between my legs, which are ensconced in my jeans. This it it. I slump in momentary defeat while my sphincter kicks into overdrive, gushing liquid poo, gush after gush, until the last wave of hydration leaves my throat dry and my body clammy. Matters do not improve; the acidity from the poo is eating away at the hemorrhoids around my *******. I know my ass cleaning will be painful to the point of dabbing instead of wiping, and painful it is, adding insult to injury.
I have some cleaning to do.
I look at the toilet paper dispenser with loving eyes: It’s a commercial dispenser that holds a large paper roll that could wipe all the butts from Los Angeles to Houston I start to dab-pat the infected area in my jeans, removing the first layer. I then take my jeans off and raise my body over the toilet.
But still there is the reality that I have **** MY PANTS! So I stand there, naked from the waist down, dipping toilet paper in clean bowl water and doing what a good son should do -- clean up like a civil being. If you can say one good thing about me, it is that my mother taught me manners, and this teaching extended to cleaning a soiled public toilet seat to the best of my abilities. One doesn’t get to write that last line too often.
I sit back down on the toilet because my bowels are not finished. My bowels, in a punishing way, are making it clear what I have done and how I have mistaken their power, influence, and ability to dole out retribution. I hear someone enter the restroom. He isn’t here long. When I regain some semblance of sphincter control, I wrap my jacket around my bare bottom and emerge from the stall with my jeans.
At the wash counter sit two cloth towels and a spray bottle of disinfectant. Whoever comes in is present a blunt message: You ****? You clean.
The hand-washing area looks like it was designed for a pants-shitting accident. There are two sinks, two paper roll dispensers, holes on both ends of the table for trash, and ample table space on which to scrub. I don’t waste any time. I tuck my jeans inside out and lay them out for a pat bath. I lather my hands with green soap, take one of the courtesy cloth towels that were left by mystery man, and go for it. By this time, my mind is spinning in fuzzy neurotransmissions and a surreal time warp. Am I actually cleaning **** from my jeans? Since I have no other alternative, I put the soaked jeans back on and high-tail it out of there.
I headed home and prepared a hot bath with plenty of capfuls of Dr. Bronner’s Peppermint Soap while I perform a second round of jeans-cleaning in the sink. As I let them soak, I immerse myself in the luxury of cleansing. With my body tingling with the freshness of peppermint, I emerge from the tub with perspective on life: I’m not dead; I’m not impoverished; I’m relatively sane; I am human; and I **** my pants. So f$&%ing what?
