A Poop Story
The point of this isn’t so much to tell a poop story as it is to recall a funny email I ran across in my ‘Sent’ folder that I wrote to a well educated, professional female friend of mine about a year ago.
Don’t get me wrong – it is a poop story – and any excuse to tell a poop story is a good one as far as I am concerned.
This evening Angie and I ate dinner at a Mexican restaurant here in Grand Rapids named Tequila Willy’s. The entree I ordered, ‘Los Tres Amigos’, is basically three giant soft shell tacos that literally take up all the room on the platter they’re served on. They come pre-stuffed with the basics, then you have a selection of other crap to put in them like salsa, sour cream, refried beans, Spanish rice, etc.
I ate 2.69 tacos. I didn’t want to over do it.
It didn’t matter.
We went to Meijer shortly after finishing our meals to pick up a few groceries. The Meijer store in question is located in a mid to lower class commerce area of GR. The Hispanic population is quite large around here, along with a bunch of poor blacks and me. Needless to say, whenever I go to this particular Meijer, I blend in like a Nazi at a Bar Mitzvah.
Shortly after walking into the store, I felt the familiar first gurgle in my stomach that would imply that mudbutt was imminent. The gurgle had that low pitched “bloop” feeling like when they first change the five-gallon container on the water cooler. I clenched my butt-cheeks together, foolishly ignoring the churning sensation in my gut and proceeded to the back of the store to begin grocery shopping.
We were perusing the paper towel section when I looked ahead and saw a display for “Charmin”. I don’t know if seeing rolls of toilet paper reminded me of what I’d soon be doing, but just at that moment I began to frantically rack my brain as to where the nearest restroom was.
FUCK!! They just finished remodeling this store!! I used to know where everything was!! Now it takes me three times as long to shop because I no longer have where everything is memorized. Furthermore, I have no idea where the bathrooms are now.
I began to power walk along the back of the store, assuming that amongst the 15,000 square feet of new floorspace they certainly would have installed a bathroom there. After all, the only known bathroom prior to their renovations was in the front of the store, in the exact opposite corner from where I’d been been standing, approximately 38 miles away.
We all know what they say about assuming. It makes an ass out of you and makes me shit my pants.
By now I was walking like one of those geriatric, q-tip aerobic exercisers that you see cruising around the mall at eight o’clock in the morning on weekdays. The only difference is that I wished I were wearing a Depends Undergarment like most of them are.
I made it to the front of the store, and up the steps to the balcony. I walked past the business office and the place where you can apply for a loan, and the place where you can get your hair cut, and the place where you can view real estate, and the Starbucks, and the strip club, and the employee lounge, and the dark windowless room where they interrogate the patrons who get caught stealing, and all the other weird entities you wouldn’t necessarily expect to find nestled in a grocery store on the way to the lone bathroom in the entire 250,000 sq. ft. establishment. I pushed past a crippled old woman and made my way into the restroom and hurried safely into the ‘handicapped’ stall; the only one equipped to accommodate those who have to make a number two.
All of this has reminded me of a long-standing hypothesis I’ve harbored – Mexican restaurants have to know that their food is going to give the majority of their patrons the shits. This is common knowledge. I figure that the management of these establishments know this, and therefore engineer their food with just enough cheese to bind you up long enough so that you’ll be long gone before your bowels are inundated with the desperate urge to purge. I dunno. Call me a conspiracist.
Reader Comments
Oh the familiar bubble guts, much like the first few spurts from a geyser they are signs of an imminent explosion. I have recently created a new term that I apply to such dumps. The “rim rocker” may sound like a basketball referrence but it is applied when you take a vicious liquishit that you actually splatter the back of the toilet rim. The noise created by the explosion resonates throughout the ampitheatre or “assitheatre” of the toilet. Then it is followed by swift ninja-like use of the toilet brush to remove the debris.
Such a fantastic visual masterpiece you’ve painted there, Tack – or shall I say, Fecasso?