This one’s about poo, among other things.

As often happens in one’s place of employment, conversation recently turned to poo, specifically dire episodes relating to its evacuation.

We were talking about bad poos.

This the story of my bad poo.

My bad poo happened four years ago.

We, the missus and the wee baby Ruby and myself looked like LIVING DOLLS we were so fucking well dressed. Amazing and sleek, like otters. Wife was driving. I was sitting in back with the well dressed and cute-as-fuck baby. The occasion was a friend’s wedding in San Francisco, normally a quick, poo-free shot over the Bay Bridge.

This was not the case come Wedding Day. The Giants were playing baseball against some other asshole team (who cares, really?) so the shit-designed chokehold crap freeway WAS A GODDAMN PARKING LOT.

All was well with our pink and groomed little family, as we sat patiently with our fellow Americans, facing the fucking freeway MORASS with the good humor of the bourgeoisie. But the façade of civilization would soon be shattered, you can bet your sweet fucking ass.

Because twenty-five minutes into our drive, barely scratching four miles, my stomach suddenly knots violently and falls about half an inch deeper into my body cavity, my kishke are pulsing like the abdomen of fecund termite queen and I started sweating like the fat slut I am. IN MY GODDAMN SUIT. Oh, fucking Christ. Kill me, kill me on the freeway. The Baby is mercifully young, and resilient. She won’t remember her father dying in a shrieking geyser of poo. Kill me now, you shitheel.

So great so far, yeah? Another fifteen minutes pass, the baby is gawping at the baritone rumble coming out of me, but whatever. We’re almost on the bridge.

Then the CROWNING STARTS. The reptilian brain throttles my ego and takes over, and the next twenty minutes turn into an Old Man and The Sea-like battle between my will and the newly sentient sea anemone on the bottom end of me. I am pounding the roof of the car and roaring, the baby next to me laughing, and my wife trying not to laugh (she is fascinated and amused by my digestion).

Wife: “Just poo your pants, and we’ll go home”

Me (clenched teeth, clenched ass): “Just…fucking…get… off… at… the… first…fucking… exit.”

So finally an hour and change into it, we get pooted out of the knotted traffic and take the first exit into San Francisco deep into the business district. Being Sunday, everything is shut.

Wife: “Nothing’s open!”

Me: “Go to the fucking Transbay…”

Now, a note about the Transbay Terminal. The Transbay is a dank cattle hall where the busses of various transit authorities converge. Its mensroom is also reknowned as a bit of a tearoom, that is a place to pick up some of anonymous ass sex from rough handed strangers. Mmmm, sweet ass sex.

My wife is openly laughing and so is my daughter. She pulls over and I bolt from the car in a ostrich mincing ass clamped run. A fucking bathysphere could not handle the atmospheres that had come to play between my mighty buttocks.

So I sprint in the gents and… holy… John Jacob Fuckenheimer-Smythe. Uh, yeah.

There are people MILLING ABOUT in the toilets. Just puttering, like fucking Diane Arbus fucking nutters MILLING about like it’s the deck of the Star of India.

In a flash, this is what I saw – in my fucking SUIT and sky blue SILK TIE. (Swear to Christ.)

-- A man rinsing out a fucking PAIR OF WADERS in the sink
-- A man with a one-eyed black cat draped across his shoulder like a stole.
-- A man WATCHING TV on a portable in a stall, with photos taped to the stall walls
-- And, most alarmingly, a large nude African American gentleman in an open stall yelling in such a manner to suggest that he was enjoying himself. No, I didn’t look.

I darted to the only open stall (doorless) unbunkling and hoped that it didn’t read as an invitation. Who was I kidding? No one was going to touch me after what I was about to do. I sat down, position my tie strategically and submitted to Fortuna.

Now, in the mining industries, there is a sort of pump, a Peristaltic pump, that operates on the positive-displacement principle of our digestive system. Within the pump housing, rollers compress the hose against a semi-circular track - like flattening a garden hose between finger and thumb. The pressure point moves along the hose, pushing the tube's contents before it. Behind the pressure point, the hose resumes its shape, sucking in more fluid. Solids – even bulky ones – are carried through the pump harmlessly. I could have passed a Baby Grand and not even noticed. All told I was in and out of that stall in about five minutes, for I did what I came to do. I had poo’ed.

I was shaking like a newly born colt when I came out. I made my way past the throng to my waiting family and wiped my hands over and over and over again with sanitary wipes. Out damn spot, indeed.

We went to the wedding and had a lovely time.

And that was my poo story.

**

Shocklingly, this is only the second poo-related post to appear on Bastard of Art and Commerce. The first can be found
here.

If you have a slow afternoon, and your desire for true tales of poo has not been slackened, you can find some charming true poo tales here.