Facing Your Fears
Some call it “encopresis,” other call it “caprophobia.” Although I have not yet found the exact term to properly use of yet, I call it “the fear of public shitting.” [Insert evil music in background here.]
Indeed, I am a freakishly fearsome public dumper. They say the first step is to admit you have a problem, so I have taken that step.
You see—I am very regular. In fact, given a Sudoku puzzle or a Bill’s-Garage-type-magazine, I’m a twice-a-dayer. It’s not that I have a nugget fetish or anything bizarre like that, it’s just that I have a reliable colon that is more DEPENDable than the weatherman. My crap-ometer hit’s full every morning and every night-- I could set my watch by it.
Knowing my phobia, here’s my story of the last time I public dumped and regretted it:
It was roughly June of 1998. I hung around with a mean crowd—the folks at Trigg Banquet Center, OPOA members, and some chick we’ll just call psycho Sara. A group of ten of us met at Trigg to toss $10 into a poker game before going to the boxing match. It was the usual scene—stale Bud Light from the tapper, cussing, a little cheating, and a great time. Tom, the owner of Trigg, had decided to serve leftovers from some banquet earlier that day. My plate was covered with some white creamy-cheesed pasta mess typical for banquet fare. Everything was going pretty peachy until about 10 minutes into the poker game, when my stomach suddenly gurgled.
Has your stomach ever murmured so strong that it gave you the shivers? I looked around realized that it was going to be a very long night if I didn’t do something fast-- The creamy cheese pasta was churning and it was somehow totally oblivious to the four-hour digestive rule. Figuring there were only nine others (and Tom had his own private shitter), the odds were good that I could get in and out of the Trigg public restroom before anyone would even notice my absence.
Ever do the "duck-walk" because of the pressure on the walls inside your ass? I did. I hadn't realized how far the bathroom was from the bar of the banquet center! The door to the facility was opened and the lights were turned off, so I flipped the switch, kicked the door stopper and seized the nearest stall.
Indeed, I am a freakishly fearsome public dumper. They say the first step is to admit you have a problem, so I have taken that step.
You see—I am very regular. In fact, given a Sudoku puzzle or a Bill’s-Garage-type-magazine, I’m a twice-a-dayer. It’s not that I have a nugget fetish or anything bizarre like that, it’s just that I have a reliable colon that is more DEPENDable than the weatherman. My crap-ometer hit’s full every morning and every night-- I could set my watch by it.
Knowing my phobia, here’s my story of the last time I public dumped and regretted it:
It was roughly June of 1998. I hung around with a mean crowd—the folks at Trigg Banquet Center, OPOA members, and some chick we’ll just call psycho Sara. A group of ten of us met at Trigg to toss $10 into a poker game before going to the boxing match. It was the usual scene—stale Bud Light from the tapper, cussing, a little cheating, and a great time. Tom, the owner of Trigg, had decided to serve leftovers from some banquet earlier that day. My plate was covered with some white creamy-cheesed pasta mess typical for banquet fare. Everything was going pretty peachy until about 10 minutes into the poker game, when my stomach suddenly gurgled.
Has your stomach ever murmured so strong that it gave you the shivers? I looked around realized that it was going to be a very long night if I didn’t do something fast-- The creamy cheese pasta was churning and it was somehow totally oblivious to the four-hour digestive rule. Figuring there were only nine others (and Tom had his own private shitter), the odds were good that I could get in and out of the Trigg public restroom before anyone would even notice my absence.
Ever do the "duck-walk" because of the pressure on the walls inside your ass? I did. I hadn't realized how far the bathroom was from the bar of the banquet center! The door to the facility was opened and the lights were turned off, so I flipped the switch, kicked the door stopper and seized the nearest stall.
Next, I did “THE MOVE”. You know “the move” —the fine-tuned coordination when your ass is about to explode that consists of the following simutaneous moves: dropping the lid, dropping your pants, spinning around, sitting and shitting explosive diarrhea without fallout-- all at once.
Somehow I was successful. Thank God there was nobody in the restroom for THAT one. Praise Jesus that I didn’t shit-paint my pants. "Wow," I thought, "that was certainly close."
My prayers were unheard because suddenly it was the sound of the opening door. "Someone is here to fuck with me!" I thought. How pathetic—I can't even fight back because my pants are around my ankles… No wait-- That is the whistle of the old guy that cleans the bathroom. He’s REALLY going to have a mess when I’m done. Ha. Sounds like he just needed to wash his hands or something. I sat silently waiting for him to leave so I could fart out any leftover fumes before going back to our poker game.
Click...
WTF?! The old guy turned off the lights! There I sat-- pants around my ankles… shit-spray all over my ass… complete darkness, and… and… NO FUCKING PAPER. I could feel the serrated plastic paper cutter, but nothing there. Dammit. Now I’ve got some serious decisions to make. I can’t just go turn on a light because my pants are around my ankles and someone would walk in and THAT would be hard to explain... I can’t pull up my pants because my ass is still wet with shit and I don’t have time to go home and change... I can’t scream for help because it’s a bunch of guys playing poker… and, well.. you just don’t do that.
I realized, THIS is why I don’t shit in public restrooms.
posted by Dr. Mike @ 11:20 AM
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