Extreme Potty Humor

Prologue: This is just a side story I have written as a part of a bunch of mini stories. I am having writers block elsewhere and figure why not see if I can revamp this and get some fresh ideas. Its longer than my other posts, and is what I would consider Extreme Potty Humor. So brace yourself. To those who know this story, sorry I have nothing fresh. Below is a chart created by my mother and myself, describing the various waves you experience when you need to go to the bathroom. Its not exact, and is subject to change depending on the pooper, but we find most people can relate. Enjoy. 

                                                The Wave Chart

Wave 1) A rumbly in your tummy. A little gurgle letting you know things are moving.

Wave 2) A small fart. Nothing monumental, and definitely something you could pass off as a

              shoe squeak or cover with a cough.

Wave 3)  A fart with substance. The fart that released enough pressure that you know there is 

              no turning back or blaming it on someone else. 

Wave 4) Intestinal Discomfort. Your stomach is in knots. 

Wave 5) A one track mind. You can't get your mind off of what is about to happen to you. You

              imagine public restroom signs popping up at you like signs from above.

Wave 6) Cold sweats. Your face, your neck, even you butt cheeks are damp with perspiration.

Wave 7) You are becoming physically ill from the toxic waste building inside you. If its not

              coming out one end, well its bound to come out the other.

Wave 8) The tight cheek walk. You cannot move without clamping your but cheeks together. It

               looks extremely awkward and makes it even harder to get to a bathroom fast.

Wave 9) Its almost too late. You have some skidmarks, or seepage, but the full assault on your

              underpants is not complete. 

Wave 10) Too late. D Day. Its running down your leg undoubtedly.  

Anywhooooo.....

In Mexico they tell you, “Don’t drink the water!” Everyone knows that. And I swear on…something important…on Michael Buble’s vocal chords that when this story takes place, I, Emily Christine Nelson, did NOT drink the water. The story you are about to read is not the result of bacterial infection in my intestines, it is instead a prime example of the horrors I suffered due to a curse I believe was placed on my family centuries and centuries ago. Somewhere, sometime, one of my ancestors popped a squat in the wrong yard, defecating in a voodoo or witch doctors lawn, forever condemning my family to have the most spastic intestines known to man. And so my fate was sealed long ago, and my story begins.

Believe it or not I used to be a fairly religious person. I was raised in a Christian family that was deeply rooted in a little church called Fowler United Methodist. It was a safe place for me as a child, being as it was the only place of worship or form of spirituality I knew at the time. As I grew up though, things changed as the church went through a series of pastor changers, never finding the right shepherd for our flock. Seeing my family struggling to find balance in the church started to make me wonder and encouraged me to look elsewhere concerning my spirituality. Before we officially left the church that I had grown up in, the summer of my 8^th grade year we attempted one last function with the crumbling church, the annual mission trip to Tijuana, Mexico. For my brother, sister, and father this final trip would be their 2^nd or 3^rd trip down, but for my mother and me it was our first mission and in fact my first adventure south of the border. For me personally the trip was about finding answers. I saw what religion was and meant to my family, but I had never had any sort of confirmation for myself, so Mexico, this place of outreach and worship, had to help me find God. In the end all I found was a pair of my poo-filled panties.

            I knew pretty much from the moment we crossed the border that Mexico was not going to be the place to find answers. Not to criticize or diminish the amazing work and worship my friends and family did/do on the missions, it just wasn’t all I thought it was cracked up to be. Was I expecting fruity drinks with mini umbrellas perched in pineapple slices? No. Did I expect to see more self sacrifice and selflessness? Yes. And I did in some. Some people astounded me with their grace and compassion, while others shocked me with their greed and desire to look good holding a hammer and sound good showing off on the acoustic guitars.

            I tried focusing on the good for a while, helping with houses, feeding the hungry, etc, but eventually I distanced myself, not really understanding why I was even there at some points. And then I got sick. Let me reiterate, I did not drink the water. I got physically ill the one day I was really looking forward to, the carnival with the orphan children. Those kids could melt even the coldest of hearts and I was so looking forward to getting to play with them. My mom swore I was faking, but get real Mom, I wasn’t that lame. It was official, my trip to Mexico was a bust. A major bust.

            The next day we were headed to the beach to repaint a community youth center. I still wasn’t feeling completely up to par, but figured that since I hadn’t eaten anything, nothing serious could happen. Boy was I wrong. Looking back on it I realize how foolish that was, knowing that I could have spared myself the beach front blowout had I just had another sick day.

            The crew and I reached the beach mid morning, with the promise of a beautiful day ahead of us. We had been at the beach for about an hour when I felt a wee rumble in my belly. According to the “Wave Scale” I was at a Wave 3, a fart with substance. At this point in my life I was unaware that being sick accelerated the “Wave Scale”. It was like adding gasoline to brush fire. However like I said, this was unbeknownst to me so I let the salty sea air cover my stinky fart and kept scraping off the old paint, reassuring myself that I could last another hour or so until lunch break. Ten minutes later I was breaking out in cold sweats and had an upset stomach. How could this be? Wave 6 and 7? What happened to waves 4, and 5? I ran over to my mom, confused and scared.

            “Mom…MOM!” I bellowed.

            “What?” she said perturbed.

            “I REALLY have to go to the bathroom!”

            “Then go!”

            “Where?”

            “Up at the pastor’s house. It’s at the top of the hill.” She pointed up a dirt road that led from the beach to a deserted looking neighborhood. Clearly my mother didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. I was not going to make it that far.

            “Mom, I’m not gonna make that,” I gave her the raised eyebrows, hoping she’d notice my sweaty brow and the panic in my eyes. She didn’t.

            “Get hiking then!” She turned around and went back to scraping her wall.

            “By myself?”

            “You’re a big girl, I an watch you the whole way up, now go if you have to go so bad,” she said without sympathy.

            That moment was something I ill never forgive my mother for. Ever. She should have seen the desperation on my face. My bitterness toward Mexico mounting, I began my lonely trek up the hillside. It was probably only a ¼ mile jaunt to the pastors, house but to me it looked like 8 miles. The walk would’ve been bad enough on a hot day for a healthy person , but for a person who had to tight-cheek walk the whole way in flip flops, the uphill street before me looked worse then a journey to the underworld. I had made it off the beach and onto the road when I came to grips with the fact I wasn’t going to make it. The toxic waste inside of me was coming out with or without my permission. I started analyzing my surroundings. Was there an alleyway I could duck into to do the dirty deed? No. A magical portapotty sent to me from God himself? No. In my time of need I was alone. I had two choices. Head back to the beach and “fall” in the ocean and let loose while “swimming,” or crap in my pants right then and there. Unfortunately nature took its course and a stray dog knocked over a trash can right next to me and LITERALLY scared the shit out of me. That’s right folks, I just stood there in the middle of the Mexican street and shat myself. I was also crying.

            At the ripe age of 13 I had a body of curves and I didn’t carry myself well so I didn’t know how to dress and my fashion was often controlled by my extremely conservative mother. I was usually outfitted in t-shirts and stretch waist pants or shorts made for middle aged women fighting off menopause. I never complained too much because I wasn’t a girly girl and I didn’t want anyone to find out I had breasts, but in 7^th grade I did find a pair of washed out cutoffs that had a zipper AND a button and they fit me like a glove. I pretty much wore them any chance I had, because they were the closest thing to cool I owned. I was wearing those shorts on that godforsaken day. On the Brightside the shorts were skin tight so the explosion in my pants had nowhere to go. They created a vacuum-sealed turd bomb in my underpants, that when I unleashed I imagined would wreak havoc on all of Tijuana. Sadly though, I knew my precious shorts were not going to live to see another Mexican sunrise. My turd bomb would kill the bit of cool that a girl like me, who shat herself, had left.

            The actual crapping of myself only lasted about 30 seconds, but I stood there in horror for at least two minutes, letting things get…situated. What snapped me out of it was the same dog that had scared me only minutes earlier. The little beast was SNIFFING my turd bomb! As I swatted him away I noticed he wasn’t alone, and that a few others had come as well, to circle me like vultures would a carcass on the Serengeti. I had to get a move on. I could see the pastor’s house at the end of the next block, so I headed there in hopes of bathroom and wet wipes.

            It was a long block and a half full of waddles and tears, but I made it, relief washing over me. I didn’t know how I was going to rid myself of the turd bomb or explain myself, all I knew was that I had made it. Sanctuary! I waddled my last few steps up to the door and knocked. No answer. I knocked louder, and still no answer. I started crying again. No one was home? You have got to be kidding me!!! I was tired but I obviously couldn’t sit down so I leaned face first against their front door and waited. I don’t know how long I stood like that but eventually I heard a car pull into the driveway. God had heard at least one of my prayers. I looked up with my tear stained face to find the pastor’s wife struggling with groceries.

            “Well hello there!” She basically sang at me. Without a doubt this broad and I were having two very different kinds of days.

            “Are you from the mission group? Oh you must be! Do you mind helping me with these?”

            She had her hands full, so I could hardly say no. I waddled over and begrudgingly took a handful of bags muttering, “Nice to meet you could I use your bathroom?”

            “Oh yes dear, here we are….let me find my keys…yeeesss…. GOT THEM!” she giggled.

            I let her lead the way to the front door, which she struggled far too long to unlock. She held the door open telling me to go first. The doorway was a few steps up and she was a short woman, so I knew if I went first my turd bomb would be staring her straight in the face. I was NOT going first.

            “No, no its your home, you go first,” I offered, trying to hold the door open.

            “Oh you polite thing, home is where the heart is, and you are giving your heart for these people in Mexico, so for now its your home too!” she beamed at me. With a surprisingly tough nudge she hurried me up the front steps so that, just as I predicted, she locked sights with the turd bomb. I couldn’t be sure but I also felt that the sudden movement up the stairs might have broken the vacuum seal that my cool shorts had been holding. I felt it start down my leg. I heard her gasp an “OH Myyy!” as the groceries hit the ground with a thud. She composed herself enough to say, “Bathroom’s the first door on the left dear!” Throwing caution to the wind I sprinted for the bathroom and locked the door behind me.
            At this point shock and complete mortification of my actions had taken hold and I was done crying. I had a challenge ahead of me, how to release my turd bomb? Did I hop in the shower? Nope, no curtain. Could I slide my pants off in one fell swoop without spilling? No. Too messy. Instead I opted for the launch approach. I would straddle the toilet bowl and launch my turd bomb out of my undies and into the bowl. That’s how it was supposed to go anyways. But it’s not what happened. The events that unfolded in that bathroom should never be committed to paper, but suffice it to say that more poo went outside the toilet then in it. In Mexico they have a catchy saying. If it’s yellow let it mellow, if  it’s brown, flush it down. But they never tell you what to do if its green. Of course in my panic I forgot that you weren’t supposed to flush toilet paper because the sewage systems weren’t strong enough, so there I was with a toilet full to the brim with poo, toilet paper and baby wipes. At this point most people would realize their mistakes, and try to fix them. Instead I just tried to flush. Nothing happened. I stood there half naked, staring at the now backed up toilet. I jiggled the handle, and thankfully it stopped. I said another prayer that was interrupted by a light knock on the door.

            “Honey how you doing in there?” she asked. I could tell she didn’t really want to know the answer. “ I have a a pair of clean underwear and shorts I will leave here on the floor for you. You look about my size. Let me know if you need anything!” Bless her soul. If only she knew the horrors in store for her that I left in that bathroom. That’s right, I cleaned myself up, dressed in her sympathy underwear and shorts and sprinted out the front door, leaving her with a backed up toilet and a garbage bin full of my cool shorts and undies. I didn’t look back. I ran the whole way to beach, tears falling fresh as I reached my mom. She stared at me and realized I was crying so she started freaking out herself. “Oh my god Em, are you hurt? What happened? You’ve been gone so long! You’re…You’re wearing different pants!” She then paused enough to get a whiff of me. “Emily, you smell like crap.” I burst into hysterical laughter. “Emily, did you crap yourself?” Continued laughter. “You did! There’s still some on your leg!!!! Go wash it off in the ocean you sicko!” My mania ceased as I snapped out of it and headed toward the waves. I washed off the spots I had missed in my panic, but by the time I got back, word had spread. “Did you hear? Emily crapped herself!” I couldn’t deny it either. You can’t LIE on a mission trip. They nicknamed me something in Mexican that had to do with beans for the rest of the trip. I didn’t find it funny.

            Needless to say I hated Mexico, and until I can afford to go somewhere that they serve those drinks with the tiny umbrellas, I will not be going back. I will have to find my answers elsewhere. 

Magic Mike Madness

Last week the movie Magic Mike hit theaters across America, bringing Channing Tatum's abs and Matthew McConaughey's tush to the masses of menopausal women who have been waiting patiently through slasher movies' boob bonanzas for a movie bound to show a chunk of man meat. Rather, dare I be so brazen, countless women were holding out for a little full frontal male nudity not involving Michael Fassbender. I mean, we have been there, done that, and womankind thanks you Mikey, but you just don't shake it like Channing does. And so on the morning I opened box office the first day of what I am now calling Magic Mike Madness, I prepared myself mentally for cranky woman and flamboyant gay men all day. No sort of mental adjustment or exercise could have braced me for what I encountered that day and the days that followed. To say I opened the door to the box office to find women clawing at the glass drooling "CHANNNNIIINNGGG....AAAABBBSSSS..BUUUTTTT!" would be an exaggeration. I did however have one elderly woman joke with me about running over to Spencer's Novelty and Gift Shop to buy her own "Vibrating Magic Mike" for the show, to which I almost lost my morning's cheerios, and another woman told me she would like to butter up Matthew McConaughey instead of her popcorn to munch on for a snack.

I am in no way claiming to be better or above these women, being as I myself couldn't wait to clock off and go be the creeper who sits through the stripper movie by herself because she couldn't wait a week to go with the flock of female friends bound to want to see it. I do however marvel at the effect feminism has had on culture in the last century, let alone the last fifty years, and wonder what kind of effect it has had on me personally. To think that my generation is one of the first to be able to openly explore our sexuality and define or womanhood publicly is mind boggling. But despite my new found rights and expectations, I still insist on remaining prude, sweet, lil ol' me. Some things are best kept behind closed doors, and I don't care how comfortable I become with myself or others, I can never foresee myself not blushing if a man is gyrating rapidly on a huge screen in front of me. Despite my extremely perverted sense of humor (curse you mom) I live a fairly prude and modest life, and really see no need to change that in the near or distant future. So while there may be too many dirty jokes about male strippers and their "poles" for me to count in my head, I know that my actions will never exceed more than an extreme blush and a tentative muffled catcall, only voiced out of courteous appreciation for the dancer.

Anyhoot, back to Magic Mike Madness. So the first day was definitely the worst. And after I'd seen what all the hype was about, I was able to appreciate the women's excitement, and more accurately judge their level of insanity as they exited the establishment. For instance, walking out of that theatre saying that is the best movie you have ever seen makes you pretty coocoocachu in my opinion, and am wondering what your movie going experiences have been in the past. If that's the case your movie views must be limited to Nicholas Cage and Katie Holmes films, you poor thing. Also, at no point is the movie interactive, so whilst doing theater checks I should not see you dancing in the aisles and grinding on the seats (yup, that happened), nor should i find popcorn strewn through out the whole row as if you were using it as confetti. It is not a kids movie, so I don't care how into it you get, you are not a 4 year old so the theatre should be left neater then the sold out auditorium of Brave.

After The Madness died down a bit, I figured my female customers would become more dignified and easy to serve. Boy was I wrong. Its like every woman I help has waited too long to see this movie, and therefore decides to take it out on me. I am the one thing standing between the hordes of horny women and Channing Tatum's pelvis. I am slowly adjusting to the bouts of hotflash induced rage and sexually frustrated sass I have been receiving from my customers, but still I wonder if its all worth it. Because, despite seeing more than our fair share of boobs in Magic Mike, we never actually do get the full monty  from any of these fine specimen. Honestly, I could go without seeing any ones junk, male or female ever. My friends even joke about how I'm a "Never Nude" since I prefer to think everyone just showers in their clothes. I, however, am clearly the minority, and on behalf of horny women without a complex, when you show up to a male stripper movie, you  totally expect to see some man meat. So really, all I have to say is- What a double standard Hollywood! You'd think if women are allowed and willing to show up for the show, you'd at least give them some kind of pay off. Nude women are found in pretty much every movie ever made despite its appropriateness, but unless you cast Michael Fassbender or Louis C.K. to your cast good luck getting a wiener shot in your show. My solution to this problem would be go back to I Love Lucy days where married couples slept in separate beds, then no one sees anything. But since I am sure I am out voted I pose a question of how long will it take before our culture takes the next step and simply embraces the male sex organ on the big screen? And yes, I meant for it to sound like that;)