I was a small boy who liked bananas, rice, applesauce and toast. It was only later in life that I realized how important it is to have a healthy amount of fiber in your diet. Needless to say, this resulted in some big hard shits. This story is about the biggest, toughest shit I ever took.
I had been sitting on the toilet for almost an hour, sweating profusely. The droplets of sweat streamed down my cheeks and chin. I had been pushing for so long, but felt as though no progress has been made. If anything, it seemed as if the turd went back deeper inside of me! How is that possible?
Something had to give. I decided right there, right then, that I would either push this bastard turd out or I would die trying. I gave myself a moment to rest and prepared my puckered anus for labor.
I had learned about Lamaze from watching Look Who’s Talking, and I put the techniques to use.
Heee heeee hooooo. Heeee heeeee hoooooooo.
Things started to move in the right direction–and that’s when I realized that I had a major problem. My poor asshole was stretched to it’s maximum, yet only the tip of the shitberg had poked out.
“How big is this fuckin’ thing?!”
There was no answer. It was just me and the turd, who seemed unwilling to communicate. I pushed. The pain was extraordinary. I saw stars. Like a large rock covered in sandpaper, the turbulent turd scraped and scratched and stretched my poor butthole. From the beating my bunghole took, I knew the final scene would be reminiscent of the title of my favorite film.
Ignoring the pain, I pushed as hard I could. It felt as though this rock-hard turd was burrowing a new asshole of its own to escape from. I still had the majority of it to pass, so I entered a zen-like trance and repeated a mantra I had learned in one of the first books I could remember.
With my renewed confidence, I made it past the widest part of this bulbous, bastard turd. Relief began to wash over me before the beast was even fully released into its new watery habitat. I started laughing while something the shape of a children’s football was still snugly pinched in place by my brutalized butthole.
Regaining my composure, I made one final push.
PLOP.
Remember how big the splash was when the fat kid would do a cannonball? That was nothing compared to the tumultuous turmoil of toilet water that resulted from the fetid football-shaped fecal bomb that dropped into the toilet. The force of the splash nearly knocked me off the toilet.
At last, the deed was done. I looked down at my handiwork and was immediately horrified. How could this small football have ever passed through me? Oh well, time to flush… or so I thought.
The fucking piece of shit would not be flushed. I tried time and time again, pushing the toilet handle while simultaneously praying to the god of unflushable feces. Each time, the turdling would spin around, refusing to be flushed. It would turn and twist, seemingly laughing at me while dancing around its new home with unfettered joy.
After more than a dozen flushing attempts, I knew desperate measures had to be taken; the turd must be dismembered. But what could I use to cut the crap? The tooling available to me within the bathroom was limited. Had there been a knife or a scissor, the story would end here. But there wasn’t, and my search for a turd-cutter went on.
I discovered a list of things that definitely could not cut through my football turd:
- a bar of soap
- a loofah
- a shampoo bottle
- a conditioner bottle
- a 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner bottle
I was about to give up and blame it on the dog, when the right tool for the job caught my eye. There were actually three of them. I tried to decide which of the three pristine white Colgate toothbrushes would be my crap-cutter.
Certainly, I wouldn’t use my own toothbrush as a shit-scissor. The other two belonged to my two beloved sisters. Whose toothbrush would make a better turd-trimmer?
On the one hand, I was mad at my oldest sister for the seriousness with which she took her babysitting duties. When my parents would go out, they would make her the babysitter. As soon as they left the house, she would get out her Nazi SS uniform and make me and my other sister wear yellow stars and beat us.
On the other hand, my younger sister had just recovered from appendicitis. I was extremely jealous of all the gifts she got for doing nothing but laying in bed like a cunt. This fucking bitch deserved to brush her teeth with a second-hand shit-snipper.
But no, that wouldn’t be fair. Truthfully, I hated them both equally. There was only one way in which justice could prevail.
I took my older sister’s toothbrush and used it to pin the turd against the wall of its porcelain domicile. I applied pressure while sawing back and forth. Approximately half-way through the turd I stopped.
The residue on my older sister’s toothbrush came off with a quick rinse in the sink. Then I grabbed my younger sister’s toothbrush and repeated the procedure, this time cutting the fecal football into two separate halves.
I flushed the toilet and waved goodbye to my football-shaped friend. I’ll never forget the look he had on his face.
I placed my sister’s toothbrushes back in the toothbrush holder. I was convinced they would never be able to tell what happened. They never did, and continued to use those toothbrushes until they were worn out.
I put my toothbrush underneath the sink where we stored our towels. I didn’t want my nice, clean toothbrush near those shit-slicers.
To Winona and Chelsea: I’m sorry.
Not really.
