SF Shits on Vegas!

I recently made a foray into the surprisingly small, incredibly noisy, sleazy, tacky, fake, downright disturbing urban jungle that is Las Vegas. Obviously, Vegas is a city where if you avoid the casinos, you sit in your hotel room with your thumb up your ass, so I spent a lot of time in said casinos. But something in the air, possibly all the sleaze, made my trousers heavy from almost the moment I set foot in the airport. Here is Shitter’s Full’s exlusive report on the state of Las Vegas casino bathrooms, in the order in which I visited them:

The Venetian:
A casino built on aping everything Venice, from the copy of the Rialto Bridge outside to a really fucking short canal with 10-20 second gondola rides. The bathrooms are nice and clean, with auto-flushes that actually wait until you’ve lifted off to flush. I notice a weird saloon-style door theme on the stalls, which doesn’t make any sense. The automatic soap dispenser doesn’t work. I am impressed by the very authentic fog of nicotine and broken dreams permeating the air. First casino visit is a wash.

Treasure Island:

A casino built on aping everything piratey, I think. I don’t know, I pretty much sprinted in and out of this casino because of the bizarre vibe I was getting from just about everything in the place: people, games, SLOT MACHINE NAZIS WHO ID FUCKING EVERYBODY. The bathroom here was identical to the Venetian, right down to the soap dispenser not working and the broken dreams. Disheartening, to say the least. On the upside, my shits have been splendid so far. Good form, release, little to no downtime.

The Bellagio:

Oh yes. I have been looking forward to pinching a loaf here. Before what would be a spectacular Cirque du Soleil performance (“O”), I find myself squatting on a Bellagio toilet. I’m a little disconcerted with the repeated use of the saloon-door, but I put it out of my mind. As ass cheek met was probably porcelain but I pretended was marble, I felt like I had made it to the big time. This feeling lasted all of eight to 10 seconds when the auto flusher got my butt all wet before I’d had a chance to settle in. Momentary setback aside, I attempt to concentrate. Eight to 10 seconds later, it happens again. I leave in a huff without shitting. On my way out I get into a three-man pileup with some Asian guy (of which there are fucking billions of in this town) and some stuck up white dude with slicked back hair wearing a really ugly golf shirt (ditt0). “Watch it dickface,” the whitey spits at me after we part. I fail to respond for several reasons. First, I’m a pussy. Second, I’m busy trying to remember the last time someone called me “dickface.” Probably second grade or so. All I can do is give the guy a confused cock-eyed look as walks back to his room, filled, undoubtedly, with cheap hookers and erectile dysfunction.

Bellagio disappoints.

The Mirage: 

This was an unscheduled stop, but one that came through in a tremendous way.  I’ll try not to pontificate, but this place was pretty great. The bathroom had a nice little aroma that I couldn’t quite place, and the doors to the stall were, finally, not those moronic saloon-things. High quality toilet-paper, in combination with a solid shit leave me feeling good inside.  Also, the PA system was playing a pretty kick-ass cover of “Tainted Love.” I was also thoroughly impressed with the mammoth aquarium behind the reception desk, and a buffet lunch that included crab legs AND chili.

The Riviera: 

I caught an ice show here, confusingly titled “Ice.” “Straight from Russia!” they claimed, and sure enough, the women were stunning and the men looked like apes. Russians, if you would have the show’s musical selection convince you, deeply enjoy P-Funk and Dark Side of the Moon. The bathroom was equally confusing, requiring a trip upstairs (I don’t go to the bathroom for exercise you pricks) and the manual pulling of towel from the dispenser. What a fucking dump.
Tropicana: 

Why do I keep ending up in these after-market casinos? I’m here seeing a magic show by some douchebag named “Dirk Arthur.” I’m seated with a family of four, three women and one heaping tub of man. He claims two of the women to his right are granddaughters, while the other is his daughter. They don’t identify which is which, and frankly two of them look like they could be his wife. The third is named “LaVonda” or something. They were white and from Cincinnati.  And what the fuck kind of name is “Dirk?” Christ, this town. I leave an unholy mess in the bathroom, which was pretty neat and clean before I came in.

The Luxor:

A casino built on aping everything Egyptian, so I was surprised to find pictures of mid-20th century movie stars adorning the walls behind each toilet.  Mine had Frank Sinatra on it. Definitely the classiest toilet I shat on the whole trip. There was even a bathroom attendant, but I didn’t tip him.

MGM Grand:

Disappointingly standard bathroom, it reminds me of my off-the-Strip hotel. I did enjoy the calming sounds of snakes, apes, and tigers roaring in my ears as I squat. The jungle theme definitely helped scare the shit out of me (get it?!?!).

So, in summation, many of the casinos adorning the Strip have below par facilities. I didn’t visit a couple of higher end casinos, Caesar’s Palace being an unfortunate miss on the trip (olive wreathes and sex slaves in the bathrooms?), but no one is perfect. Until next time.

Published in: on January 9, 2008 at 12:37 pm  Leave a Comment  

Supersized

I always looked up to my old man, and after this sloppy story it was hard not to idolize him.

Pop was a man of bodily functions: belching at the dinner table; pausing mid-sentence to lift a cheek off his seat and rip a fart; peeing with the door open as he examined the ceiling and talked to himself; pooping while petting and conversing with our dog in the bathroom; sweating almost uncontrollably; etc. A three-shirts-per-day type guy. Hell, he even pitted out an entire wool suit coat once. The Salvation Army wouldn’t take it because of the white salt-stain rings under the arms.

I was in sixth grade when my dad taught me that pooping is something I should never be ashamed of doing, for everyone poops. This grossed me out because he then added, “Christ, and I know you’ve smelled your mother’s dumps!” Gross, dad. Anyway, he believed defecation to be a fine art – something that one should be proud of producing and, when warranted, put on public display to be admired and marveled.

This lesson became incredibly clear to me one Sunday afternoon while he drove me home from a soccer game. We stopped to eat at McDonald’s where he ordered his usual: one Big Mac meal, Supersized with a Coke. That day he had built up an intense thirst and finished his first cup of Coke before we even got our food.

This is where I will tell you that my dad’s metabolism is freakish. No sooner would something go into his mouth before he’d be in the bathroom grunting and cursing and pushing what he had just consumed back out into the world. Looking back on it, it really was amazing. As a family, we had actually grown accustomed to not leaving restaurants until he “fired one out before hitting the road.”

By the time we got in the car dad was working on his third Supersized Coke. That’s something like two liters of soda in 25 minutes. Come on. His teeth should have started falling out at that point. And, strangely enough, he did not use the restroom before we left.

We did not see the traffic jam coming. It had already been a long drive and I could tell something wholly rancid was brewing in his core. I mean, I could actually hear it happening. It sounded like Metallica. The third Coke was now gone and we were just sitting in gridlock. Dad never had any patience behind the wheel, so it was telling when his customary extroverted charades had stopped, and he channeled the hatred he usually has for other drivers on to himself. “FUCK! Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. God damn it, David. God fucking damn it!”

The man had to take a shit. Badly. And we were stuck on a stretch of highway with no exits or places for him to do so. All he could do was bite his nails, take deep breaths and contract his butt hole tighter than he ever had before.

When traffic let up he drove it like he stole it. He laid rubber and everything. It was right out of a COPS chase. He took our exit and passed dozens of gas stations, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. “David, listen to me carefully. If we do not make it home in the next five minutes, I swear to fucking God that I will shit my pants in this car.” He said that he could tell this was going to be the type of poop to send a chill down his spine, and that no ordinary bathroom would do – he had to do this at home. We were doing 65 in a 40.

We entered the subdivision and his seat belt was off. He was leaning forward over the steering wheel and I remember swearing to myself that I would never end up in a situation like this. I promised to stay near a toilet at all times or carry plastic bags with me wherever I went. Something. He threw the car in park at the base of our driveway, got out and started sprinting to the house. Didn’t even shut his door. The sight of him moving like that really let me know something special was about to happen. He was waddle-running, with his right arm reached behind him and his hand cupping his butt hole area.

I got out and followed.

When I got inside I noticed it right away. Poop. All over. On the kitchen floor. Left behind like an animal’s tracks. Right there. And there. The poor man had lost control and Hershey Squirted before making it into the bathroom, and feces streams had blasted through his shorts, down his legs and onto the ground. It had no consistency, and mostly resembled dark chocolate diarrhea, its flecks strewn across the floor every which way. Our dog was starting to sniff it. The trail led around the corner to the toilet, where I found him doubled over on the throne. The sounds that escaped his hole had so much resonance, so much bass, that I thought he might shatter the toilet. When his poop dropped, it resembled the sounds of projectile vomit slapping water.

I turned to give him privacy but he called my name. “David! Get back here! I’m passing Ronald McDonald through my ass and I want you to see this!” When he was done he did not flush, but came out to get me. I felt weird. We were both looking down at what lay in the toilet, and though I knew it to be poo I simply couldn’t imagine how it had come from a human being. It was awful. It looked like somebody had taken asphalt and a bunch of Black Widows and put it all in a blender on purée. There was even some blood in there. The smell was worse. “Remember this, and never let me have Coke again,” he said. Then he flushed.

You know, we probably could have strained and distilled it for more Coke.

– Bradford

Published in: on December 2, 2007 at 8:16 pm  Comments (2)  
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Shitty Pants Bike Scramble

In light of all the amazing poop stories my fellow bloggers apparently have, I’ve been doing some soul searching. I realized that for all my pooping prowess, I was having a hard time remembering any specific events worth sharing with the internet. Clearly unacceptable. So I figured the issue was that I had repressed memories from the occurrence of such traumatic events, and set out to force myself to remember something. I tried meditating on the crapper, but found myself mentally constipated. I tried hypnotizing myself, but that turned out to be really hard to do and I don’t particularly like putting effort into things.

But, as with most revelations, the answer came to me unexpectedly. I was just working on a presentation on food security, and part of that is discussing the E. coli outbreak that happened recently. Did you know that E. coli can cause bloody diarrhea which can eventually lead to death?

Suddenly a memory came back to me with as much fluidity as it’s subject matter.

When I was a younger kid, I was pretty weird about pooping. I would frequently hold shits in for days for no apparent reason. I also pretty much refused to stop doing fun kid things to poop, regardless of the urgency of the situation. This flaw proved fatal one day when playing backyard football at a neighbors house. Though I could feel a warm pot of poop-coffee brewing in me, I was on a motherfucking roll catching passes and breaking tackles. Plus, no way was I going to poop at my friend’s house. I was terrified of clogging other people’s toilets, though I only weighed like 80 pounds so I’m pretty sure I couldn’t produce such a monster anyways.

That’s when it happened. Hut! Hut! I run my trademark post pattern and make a ballsy catch across the middle of the field, but the fat little red-head home-schooled neo-con from next door grabbed my jeans pocket (probably a sweet pair of Jncos or something) and attempted to pull me down, tearing the awesome fabric from the top of my ass to the middle of my calf. Another kid finished me off with a well executed shoulder to the stomach, and that’s when the shit really hit the fan. The impact forced the butt coffee from my blow hole and into my little-boy boxer shorts. I immediately started crying and ran for my bike, praying my peers wouldn’t notice the strange concoction trickling down my newly exposed leg. I mounted my hog (BMX bike) and raced home with a pinched asshole. Five minutes later I was performing a controlled power slide into my driveway and trying to devise a plan.

We had a pole barn with a toilet in it that had to rival the seediest hole in the ground in Africa in its nastiness, but it also offered refuge, ensuring that my mom wouldn’t see the shambles I was in and that I wouldn’t drip poop on our beautiful white carpet. I hovered my sweet little 8-year old ass over that cesspool of a toilet and let loose, tears flowing nearly as quickly as the feces. I clogged the toilet due to the massive amount of toilet paper required to clean my asshole, my butt crack, and my legs. I buried the undies and the pants in the bottom of the barn trash and frantically searched for solutions to the new problems I was facing: naked from the waist and a badly clogged toilet without a plunger.

At this point my true-self was revealed. I said “fuck it,” put on my awesome camouflage deer hunting overalls and ran in the house. I was thoroughly interrogated by my parents, but I totally stone-walled them. No matter how many times they asked, I knew nothing about the terrible smell pervasive throughout the barn and didn’t remember ever owning that pair of missing jeans. It’s amazing the lengths you’ll go to as a child to keep your parents from finding out you shit your pants. In retrospect I’m pretty sure my parents were smart enough to realize what happened, and were just playing mind games with me. Those mind games may have caused permanent emotional damage, and I can only hope that shitting my pants didn’t ruin my life.

I can’t even remember the fallout with the kids down the street. Perhaps that memory is repressed even further.

Writing this down right now just made me remember an equally entertaining poop story involving stone-faced lies being told to my parents for the sake of covering my tracks. This is like fucking therapy.

-Kyle’s Piles

Published in: on December 2, 2007 at 7:06 pm  Leave a Comment  
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VICTORY

I’m not usually a coffee drinker, but I needed some help, so I drank a few cups this morning, and bam, it put my ass in the john. Two nice solid chunks are produced, along with an overwhelming feeling of relief. I high-fived myself. But, just when all was looking up again, life throws me another roadblock: in my three days of not shitting, I haven’t noticed the lack of toilet paper in the apartment. So I wiped my ass with the picture of my roommate’s girlfriend that he keeps on his desk. He deserved it.

-DS

Published in: on December 2, 2007 at 12:30 pm  Comments (2)  

Welcome to My Nightmare: The Ongoing Saga

I look at my clock, it’s exactly noon. I immediately rise from my bed with a singular purpose: to pinch a loaf. I squat, and pray. Suddenly, there’s a rumbling, an old familiar feeling that makes my adrenaline rush. I position myself, I push, and miracle of miracles, I produce. A feeling of accomplishment surges through me. I feel like a champion, a goddamn badass, like Indiana Jones if Nazis were blocking his shits. I swivel around to admire my fortunes, and what I see makes me want to weep for all that is holy. I dropped a single turd half the size of my index finger. Unfortunately, I’m hungry again, so now I have to deal with more university garbage-pail food. I pray for my ass, to the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, to release the magnificent crap I know I have within me.

-DS

Published in: on December 1, 2007 at 12:52 pm  Comments (1)  

Welcome to My Nightmare: Part One.

It’s been approximately 23 hours since my last meal. I ate dinner at about 5:00 PM on November 29th, and didn’t eat the rest of the day. I woke up the next morning two minutes before the bus, rolled out of bed without showering, brushing my teeth, or even thinking about food. I have class until 2:30 PM. I’m forced to run errands around campus until almost 4:30 PM. At this point, I’m pretty fucking hungry, and finally my day is over, I can eat.

Some amongst my esteemed poobloggers are lucky enough not to have to rely on dining halls for their food. I am not one of those people. On the other hand, I’m also not a raging alcoholic, nor do I have to inhale Metamucil to keep my intestines from seeping hot lava, so I guess I have that going for me. I grab the chef’s special: greasy, deep fried shit. I’m hungry enough that I’m not even looking at what I’m eating. It turns out I ate two slices of pizza, some pasta with generic meat sauce, and french fries with BBQ sauce. I wash it down with two glasses of water. Drinking healthy is one of the most important tenets of my life. I go back for more pizza and french fries. In half an hour I’m already feeling some tingling in my ass. Not a good sign.

Before I go out for the night, I try and head the shit off at the pass. Nothing doing. I produce a pathetic raisin sized turd and nothing more to show for 15 minutes of strain and sweat. My ass feels worse, but I can’t do anything about it. After a short night of breaking into people’s apartments (a story for another time), I’m back in my apartment. I feel like I can perform this time. I sit. I squeeze, I moan and curse (fortunately my roommates aren’t here), and for my efforts I’m rewarded with almost nothing. It looks like a single piece of shit colored confetti. I did manage to stink up the whole apartment, though. It smells like I murdered a family, took dumps in the mouths and left them to rot in the shower.

I am now at the mercy of a fate worse than death: constipation. The toilet gods are testing me, and I’m not sure I’m up to it. If a healthy dose of coffee in the morning doesn’t unplug me I’ll have to do something drastic, like try Exlax, which I’ve never had to resort to. I’ve been blessed with a set of nicely functioning bowels, but they have failed me tonight. If I’m lucky enough to be alive in the morning, part two will hopefully report that I managed to move my undoubtedly greasy bowels.

-DS

Published in: on December 1, 2007 at 1:43 am  Comments (1)  

CinnaShits

The first ingredient for this bombastic bowel movement was really just a lot of pot. After culling an appetite that would shame any Rwandan into becoming the next contestant for The Biggest Loser, three stoned 20-somethings dialed Domino’s Pizza for priority delivery. The order? Two large pepperoni pizzas and two orders of CinnaStix – the sinfully sweet slab of bread coated in butter and dusted with cinnamon and sugar, complete with a side of frosting.

This seemed totally doable, and it was in no way a burden to finish. But the hunger? Did this quell the horrible hunger pains THC was wreaking on our three famished bellies? No it did not. We were starving like incoherent homeless people, and quickly decided we could not wait for another delivery. Yeast itself could not rise fast enough for us to cram something doughy down our gullets.

So we headed directly to the source.

The local Domino’s was empty, largely because Domino’s makes downright shitty food, and in part because we had ventured out in the middle of a blizzard. The emptiness of the brightly lit place also posed certain psychological battles for fucked-up minds. Knowing far too well the inadequacy of our previous order, we upped the ante. This time our request was two large pizzas and three CinnaStix – thus making the CinnaStix-to-human ratio 1:1.

Back in the car we unveiled our smorgasbord. For a moment it was something of pure whimsy – an entirely magical, transcendental experience. I was lying down in the back seat, vertically shoving strips of CinnaStix down into my head like the great Dionysus once dangled grapes over his mouth. Except I had white frosting all over mine. A couple of tracks into Dark Side Of The Moon and it was all gone.

And the hunger – surely this ended the pandemic famine, right? No! It was still very much alive. We needed more food, fast. The bad news was that Domino’s was now closed, undoubtedly in hysterics, frantically calling the command center for more CinnaStix batter. To the left of Domino’s was China Buffet. It would have to do.

China freaking Buffet. A godsend. We filed into the restaurant, also empty, and up to the steamy food that awaited us. The place was overstaffed, so eight Chinese women watched in silence as we made several trips to get more General Tso’s chicken. We had no idea who General Tso was and had no interest in knowing, but what we did know was that he made some mean fucking chicken. On the way out the women encourage us to take home whatever pastries were left over on the dessert cart, as no one in their right mind would be frequenting their restaurant that night. These were consumed on the drive back.

A couple of bowls for a night cap and we passed out.

The events that took place in my stomach over the next eight hours or so is something I cannot – and do not – want to picture. I felt it all – the curdling and congealing of feces being packed end over end onto the eye of my anus. General Tso was waging biological and chemical warfare against the CinnaStix inside me, and I could do nothing to combat it. I awoke the next morning, my sheets completely drenched in my own sweat, the beads of which would have blown at least a .35 on a cinnalyzer.

I realized I was late for a seminar I was supposed to attend, so I hit the road. My mind muddled with having to make a late entrance into the lecture hall, I can say that the intestinal pain I was experiencing subsided, and I remember wanting breakfast – which is absurd. Once seated at a desk though, it became a different story. Up until this point in my life I had been pretty good about being able to hold things in. Farts, sharts, poops, you name it. A real tight bung hole. That is, until the lecture began.

In the turn of a second, it felt like Dr. Claw had taken my intestines betwixt his thumb and index finger and started to go, go gadget pinch the shit out of me. Yes, quite literally. My physical reaction to this pain was to stand up and head for the exit. I had stupidly chosen to sit in the middle of a large row of seats, so I had to excuse myself and tight-rope walk past 25 people. With shit dangling out of my ass. I started to sweat again.

I’m usually pretty particular about cleaning a public toilet and making a nest on it before I mount the damn thing, but not this time. It could have been the most wretched, vile commode on the face of the earth – it wouldn’t have mattered.

My cheeks were not even planted on the porcelain before poo started spewing out of my butt. I hadn’t even looked to see if there were other people using the john, which is usually of concern to me. In retrospect, it’s hard to convey the velocity at which the sewage propelled from me, but I swear it could have projected me upward. My ass could have been a hovercraft over the toilet, the force of my shit counteracting gravity in some ridiculous equilibrium.

At first it came out in long, wide brown loaves like cookie dough, which isn’t that surprising since I was practically pinching off two and a half loaves of bread. Some serious cable. Within a minute I had exceeded the water level, turning the regular toilet into my own personal Porta John where poop just festers on top of more poop. Then I felt the oncoming irregularity of spatter shits. The ethnic spice of General Tso that tasted so good going down felt so bad coming out, and it scorched my colon. My shits turned into firecrackers that were loud and unpredictable, and they blasted the poo pile below me like a sand dune, complete with poo poo flying off the dune and onto the sides of the toilet and even my ass cheeks. This was the type of BM where wiping just won’t do – you need to shower.

In 20 minutes it was all over, and like any good poo the carnage warranted examination. After cleaning my own ass, I studied the heap of sin I created. Healthy brown logs where Domino’s lay and jet black where the Tso bombs were dropped. The toilet couldn’t even swallow all of it, so I just left it there, basking in all its glory.

To be honest, this No. 2 had sucked the life out of me and I needed to walk it off. I was feeling faint and light-headed, and I even forgot to wash my hands.

I soon noticed this when I smelled a piece of poop under my fingernail, so I went back in to wash.

-Guest blogger Bradford aka The Shit Demon

Published in: on November 30, 2007 at 7:22 pm  Comments (4)  

Decent Dumps. (Whoa man, great coverage)

Michaelangelo had David, I had this.

Published in: on November 30, 2007 at 4:53 pm  Leave a Comment  
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And Now, a Word From Our Sponsors: The Stuff Memorable Shits are Made of

Last night I drank quite a bit of seriously hoppy brew, and as a result, I just took a poop that smells like motor oil if motor oil was capable of spoiling the way milk does. It got me thinking about the things you eat or drink that you just know are going to make for exceptional (for better or worse) shits. Personally, these are the ones that come to mind, and I’m sure you’ll agree on a few.

T-BellChipotle Oaked beer = oaked ass Orange chicken will burn your asshole.
Hot dogs, for Jews!

The state of the bathrooms in these places says it all. Sometimes you really do sink this low.

That’s the stuff dreams are made of my friends. Honestly, Old Country Buffet has to be the best example. Have you ever seen the bathroom in one of those places? Dear God, even the cinnamon rolls (which are awesome) will give you explosive diarrhea. It’s absurd. Taco Bell is pretty predictable. You’re gonna have some slop plops after eating that, there’s just no way around it. Chipotle is cool because you don’t really know what you’re gonna get. Sometimes all that beans and rice makes for a pretty solid job, but other times the strength of the spicy barbacoa overcomes the odds and completely destroys you, your stomach, and your toilet. It’s a highly variable thing, and depends a great deal on what meat you get, and if your a pussy and get any salsa that’s not the really fucking hot one then your poop probably won’t sting quite as bad. Oak aged beer = oak aged shit. It’s a fact. Busch Light practically wrote the book on “beer shits.” How something that tastes so much like water can reek so much havoc on one’s bowels is beyond me. And then there’s the classic “poop 5 minutes later” combo:

The Tom Waits Special

 

 

 

Editors note: Shitter’s Full does not have any official affiliation with these companies. If you are interested in actually sponsoring this blog, I suggest you rethink your business model.

Published in: on November 30, 2007 at 2:07 pm  Leave a Comment  
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“Just trust me on this one” – On Pooping, Wet Ones, and The Godfather

It was not long ago that I would dread the act of pooping. Far from being a fleeting moment of solitude with only the cacophony of the bathroom communicating to me, I worried about just how and where I might take a dump, an overwhelming burden on both my colon and my psyche. Unfortunately, I suffered from what a friend referred to as a “fissure,”* or a bleeding asshole, to use the technical term. It depended on the poo, but for the most part, all toilet paper made my fissure worse, like 80-grit sandpaper on a cut of silk, shredding my sphincter and leaving me in tatters. Due to my condition, I was confined to pooping in my house, where I might then take a shower afterwards or apply a coat of Goldbond to my sensitive asshole. If my situation was so dire that I was forced to poo somewhere on campus or whathaveyou, I could be seen not 15 minutes later, picking my butt, hoping that my boxers might somehow scratch the unscratchable itch. I was miserable, but I had no earthly idea how to fix my fissure.

Then, one day, I was at my mother’s house, preparing to “drop a deuce,” as the kids say, and fearing the chafing that was to accompany it. When I started to pirouette upon the toilet, I noticed a strange box above the john – it was labeled “Wet Ones,” and when I opened it, I found large, moist towelettes, not unlike the kind you receive after a meal at a barbeque restaurant. I was unsure why these sat atop the throne, but as I prepared to rain fire on my asshole with Charmin Ultra, it occurred to me exactly what these Wet Ones were used for. When I moved the cloth across my poor, irritated fisher, I found myself awash with calm and rejuvenation, not unlike the feeling of diving into water during the dead of the summer’s heat. For months I had been searching for salvation and finally, Wet Ones had answered my prayers with its aloe coating, easy disposal, and pleasant smell.

Very soon, I became an avid user. They sat proudly upon my toilet, just like my mom. I evangelized them to my friends and quickly they became a staple of my school bag, an effective defense against the shoddy protection offered by campus restroom toilet paper. It was the happiest shitting I have had since Huggies. I told them, “Just trust me on this one” and have converted several of my friends, avid users themselves.

And then, graduation, moving, job. I soon found myself working at an office with a large, open layout. Our bathroom was outside in the hallway and I had to somehow, remove the Wet Ones Travel Pack from my bag, slip them inside my pocket, and then walk across the office. It was not long before my fisher was biting again, and after months of pleasant pooping, I was determined to find a solution.

At first, I simply resolved not to poo in the office. But as the working day grind drew on, I consumed more coffee and even breakfast a couple days a week – it was not a reasonable solution. Then, I decided that I would only poop after lunch, when I could go through the front door to the bathroom without arising the suspicion of colleagues to my asshole’s dire need of Wet Ones’ aloe-treated wipes. But after too many days when I was forced to bare the pain of bulk office toilet paper and the indignity of it all, I decided to take matters into my own hands.

I recalled a classic scene from the movie, The Godfather, at Louis’ Restaurant where Michael Corleone excuses himself from a dinner with Messrs Solozzo and McCluskey to retrieve a gun from the toilet. He returns to shoot both men, as retribution for a failed attempt to end his father’s life. It was an improbable murder, as McCluskey had vigorously searched Michael already – but the Corleone family had anticipated this and stashed the weapon in the toilet. I faced similar odds, with leering co-workers, loud and unwieldy packaging, and a trek across the office to meet my fate with the porcelain Gods. I wondered – could I pull a Corleone at Louis’?

Engrossed by the thought and not even having to poo, I raced across the office and entered the bathroom, scouting a hiding spot. The medicine cabinet was no good, and the ceilings were inaccessible. The paper towel dispenser was too visible. Under the trashcan was an option, but what if they changed the cans and I was left to widdle my fissure down? I searched the whole water closet but it was not until I had just about given up that I noticed I could safely, securely paste the Wet Ones to the back of the toilet. It has made all the difference in my office pooping.

So, I leave you with just one piece of advice. Just trust me on this one. Wet Ones will truly change your life.

*I would never have known, but “fisher” was a malapropism.  It’s “fissure,” which makes a lot more sense.

Published in: on November 30, 2007 at 1:09 pm  Comments (3)  
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