I used to run 10 kilometer races. My secret weapon was Chinese food. I usually ordered a chicken dish the night before a race to prepare me for the run. It really helped! The high sodium content helped me retain water, preventing dehydration.
Sometimes I would order General Tso’s Chicken, and other times I might order Sesame Chicken. Once in a while I would order Orange Chicken or Tangerine Chicken. Occasionally I would order Kung Pao Chicken or Garlic Chicken. One time though, I didn’t order chicken. I ordered Garlic Shrimp.
The start of the race the next morning was just like any other. Since I only ran these races to keep my large body in check, I liked to sprint out ahead of everyone when a race would commence. After a minute or so, the real runners would catch up to me, but for a brief moment I would feel like a fat Forrest Gump. I liked to imagine the other runners would be thinking, “Who the fuck is that obese moron sprinting ahead of everyone?”
After falling behind most of the other runners, I let my mind wander and took in the scenery around me. It was a more popular race than I was used to attending. Citizens lined the streets in front of their homes, clapping with encouragement and offering water in small paper cups. “This is nice,” I thought to myself.
About twenty minutes into the race, it occurred to me that I had to take a shit. “No problem,” I thought. “I can probably wait it out until the race is over.”
I was wrong.
What began as a quiver in the depths of my bowels turned into an earthquake in my belly. I ran hunched over, my stride off-kilter to prevent any possible opening from which the beast within me could escape. The people watching the race were concerned, asking me if I was okay. Doubled over in equal parts pain and fear I asked, “Can I use your bathroom?”
I asked everyone. At least three dozen different people who were standing on the curb in front of their home. “Is there any way I can use your bathroom?” No one said anything.
Then it happened.
Like a groundhog peeping out for an early Spring, the liquid feces came out gingerly at first, curious to explore the environment in my shorts. Soon after setting its sights on my stark white underwear, it came out in full force.
Let me tell you more about the underwear I used to wear for these races. It was fucking tight. Like an impenetrable fortress, the elastic kept in every ounce of shit; the puddle within sloshed relentlessly against my virgin asscheeks, like a diaper filled with chunky lava. I prayed for death.
Unable to jog through the pain, I began to walk slowly. I still had more than five kilometers to go until the finish line, and no one would let me use their bathroom. An old man, at least seventy years of age jogged past me saying, “I must be sixty years older than you — don’t stop running!” I gave him my best “FUCK YOU” look and kept walking.
After almost an hour of running with several pounds of liquid shit in my shorts, I made it to the finish line. Being located in the center of town, I knew one of the shops would have a bathroom I could use.
I found a bagel store. At first, the man behind the counter said the bathroom was for employees only. I stared deep into his eyes. Through some inexplicable non-verbal communication, the man could see that I was suffering. Maybe he had experienced his own personal diarrhea holocaust, or maybe he was just a decent person. Either way, I’m pretty sure he would eventually come to regret the decision to let me use the bathroom.
I cleaned myself up the best I could. I knew the underwear had to be sacrificed. But where should I put this underwear full of partially-digested low-quality shrimp? There was no garbage can in the bathroom. Should I leave it on the floor? No… that’s too garish, even for me.
Aha! I knew what to do.
I can’t say for certain that the underwear was ever found. I never stepped foot in that bagel store again. Maybe it’s still there today, in my secret hiding place. Probably not though–a pair of underwear stuffed in the toilet tank would undoubtedly cause some plumbing issues eventually.
Another story gained; another pair of underwear gone forever.
