One day I pooped

Three years ago, I shit in a gas station toilet.

To understand the context in which this tale exists, it’s necessary to enlighten you first and foremost as to my excretory tendencies. As my roommate might attest, I relieve myself of my solid-waste burdens more or less two times as frequently as any other person on the planet. That is, my body calls for a mandatory, everything-must-go anal purge on roughly the same timetable as Old Faithful, give or take a few minutes depending on my corn intake. This is normally.

On the fateful day which I describe to you now, it had been 2 days since I had last deposited my smelly bounty, and dreadful things were brewing. My gut had been aching on-and-off but I hadn’t, despite many efforts, been able to squeeze out the villainous shit-log which was determinedly gummin’ up mah works. But now, we were on our way home from Cedar Point, and about an hour into our drive I realized that 12 hours of consuming nothing but deepfried lard and sugar at the amusement park had finally awakened the horrorterror of fecal wrath which lives in my colon. Violent, stabby pains lanced my abdomen, and I suddenly was made aware that I needed to shit with approximately the same intensity with which an Orca whale floating several hundred meters above the ground must fall. My stomach gurgled in agony, and suddenly I knew what intestines sounded like when they wanted to kill themselves. I needed to make my plight known to the rest of the vehicle.

“Mother,” I announced, “Satan has gathered his armies at Hell’s Gate, and that Gate is my asshole.”

In short order, we stopped, and I waddled gallantly into the dingy Speedway and into the miserable rat hole they called a restroom. There were two urinals and two toilets. In the point .3 seconds it took me to whip into the nearest stall and de-pant, I noticed shoes in the adjacent stall. I felt deep sympathy for them but, as butt cheek met porcelain, within me I knew that it was all over. There was no turning back.

For a moment, I restrained the cruel tides of fate and ass-batter, and I knew then how the men felt in the Enola Gay, knowing that with one, subtle movement, Nagasaki would be no more.

My stomach crowed its dirge of loathsome apocalypse once more. I begged Nagasaki’s forgiveness.

“FOR NARNIA” I bellowed as I pounded the walls of the stall with balled fist. My genitals had long since retracted into my body like a dick-turtle out of pure terror at the coming crap-aclysm. For an instant, the compacted crap at the colonic exit held, too long dried and hardened to budge. But the white hot atomic fury of the incoming B.M quickly overpowered it. At t+ .04 seconds my sphincter was outclassing jet-liners in terms of thrust. My asshole had metamorphosed into a Space-Shuttle powered by Mach 5 shit and shame. The Sun has has solar flares which have ejected less material with less intensity than I propelled blistering diarrhea from myself. The tiles into which the toilet was bolted had cracked, the walls of the stall all shuddered and creaked away from the nuclear asstastrophe. The tank on the toilet exploded because it committed suicide. I knew precisely what the word “shitstorm” truly entails.

At this point in time, the infernal and eternal Eldritch majyyks which have clearly possessed my rectum begin flowing outward from my innards with the shit, a sewageous torrent of evil energies, promulgating bizarre events and upsetting the very balance of nature.  Dogs in the surrounding 4 counties won’t stop barking for two days. The Ohio river flows backwards for ten minutes, a seismograph in Belize registers a 2.4 and somewhere in Albania, a gastroenterologist begins to weep but doesn’t know why.

There is one ultimate, cacophonic explosion of shit which thunders from my now-gaping poop-chute, a concussive blasst which rattles silverware in drawers up to 3 miles away. In this moment, I am the peaceful eye of the hurricane, I am Nirvanic, I am bliss itself. My soul rests, having cleansed itself of the grimdark turd-taint which had infected it. As little dribbles of overflow shit glide down the exterior of the bowl, and the sewage stench of my criminal droppings waft throughout the bathroom, simultaneously I hear two things: My stomach gurgles once, and I realize with terror that it is not over. In fact, the worst has yet to come. And my stall neighbor says, and I quote: WHAT THE FU-

There’s no longer a Speedway there.