A Christmas Present For You

As a Yuletide gift to anyone who has been reading the ramblings I’ve been spewing for the past year, I’m going to tell you a story that I never thought I would.  It took place last summer during my trip to Michigan, and it is probably the most embarrassing thing that happened to me in 2009.

Jackie, Jaws, and I were driving back to Milwaukee after a weekend of visiting my mom in Michigan.  I had to take a leak, so we pulled over at one of those public rest areas.  I did my business, stretched out, and took Jaws for a walk.  We got back into the car and started heading home.  Next stop: Brew City.

After about 30 seconds on the freeway, I felt a little rumble in my tummy.  “Whoa!” I thought, “Looks like I forgot to take care of something at the rest stop.”  I figured we’d be home in about an hour and I could definitely make it ‘til then.  About 30 more seconds later…

Rumble, Rumble.  Okay, maybe I’ll stop at the next gas station.  Another 30 seconds pass…

RUMBLE! RUMBLE! RUMBLE!  Alright, I need to shit…NOW! Where the fuck is the next exit!

4.75 agonizing miles later (in Cleveland, WI) I managed to get off the freeway, squirming franticly has my fiancée asked me if I was alright and my dog pounced on my lap and tried to lick my face.  I would later tell Jackie that I described this feeling as “the worst I’ve ever had to go boom-boom in my life.”

(I later found out that the relentless shitstorm I was trying to contain at the time was caused by a cheeseburger I consumed while in Michigan.  Apparently, a similar feeling came over everyone else who ate one the day before.  They were all near a bathroom.  I, however, was not.  On top of that, no one, my fiancée included, warned me about this as I ate that gut-wrenching burger.)

I pull up in front of the gas station, which was about another mile or so from the freeway.  I parked in the spot nearest the door and just sat.  Jackie looked at me, wondering what the hell I was doing.  I didn’t even have the energy to tell her that I had to collect myself; because any sudden movement WOULD result in me shitting my pants.

Slowly, I got out of the car and walked into the gas station, ass cheeks clenched firmly.  I pushed the door open to the men’s room and immediately surveyed the situation.  To my right: a wall with three urinals.  Straight ahead: a man combing his hair in front of a large mirror with two sinks in front of it.  And to my left: the lone bathroom stall; and it’s unoccupied.

I moved my left foot and took my first step towards that sweet porcelain.  There was nothing in the world that could’ve made me feel better at that moment than sitting on that thing and unloading a mound of mud butt.  I took another step.  I was a mere two steps from the door when I saw something out of the corner of my eye.  It was him.  It was the guy that was combing his hair.  He was heading for the stall, and he’s gonna get their first!

The man did, indeed, make it to the stall before me.  “Dude,” I told him, “I’ve really gotta go.”

“Sorry. I was here first.”

He headed into the stall and began doing the only thing I cared about in the world and that very moment.

I rushed out of the bathroom and looked at the “Women” sign at the other end of the hall.  I stared at it for a good 5 seconds and thought about boldly going where no man has gone before.  But before I did, visions of headlines reading “Peeping Tom pervert takes most disgusting shit ever in Women’s room” ran through my head.  I turned around and headed back into the men’s room to devise a new plan.

I walked back in and saw that the man with the combed hair was still in the stall, probably relishing a body with no feces aching to get out.  I scanned the bathroom a little more thoroughly, looking for anything to help me come up with an idea, anything at all.

Before I knew it, I was dropping the nastiest deuce of my life inside a 3½ foot garbage can in a men’s room in Cleveland, WI.

During the act, I experienced some of the greatest relief I’ve ever felt.  As soon as the pooping concluded, complete and utter fear took over.  What if someone walks in?  What if the dude with the combed hair gets out of the stall?  And most importantly, what am I gonna wipe with?  Well, when I conducted my “thorough scan” of the bathroom, I neglected to notice that this particular lavatory had the automatic hand dryer as opposed to paper towels.  I exhaled a sigh of complete disgust as I pulled my pants up and waited for the dickhead on the toilet to get out.  Once he finally did, I went in and cleaned up and decided that leaving my boxers in the garbage can and driving home commando was probably the best idea.

After probably about 20 minutes in that gas station, I got back in the car and told Jackie the whole story.  How she made it all the way back to Milwaukee without laughing at and/or insulting me is a mystery.  I took one step into my house and realized something:  the most disgusting poop of your life is followed with the most necessary shower of your life.

And that’s my story.  Merry Christmas.


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2 Responses to “A Christmas Present For You”

  1. Nickie Says:

    James I just read this in class and this is so foul.. but hilarious.

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