Embarrassing Acts
Posted: Thu Dec 02, 2004 12:57 pm
Yes, this, she is the thread of much laughter and the fun (see, people, I'm willing to give fake Italian a try). Here is my contribution:
The night of my 21st birthday, living in posh Newport Beach, CA, a few friends and I went out to all of the local bars, at each of which I had to inform the bartender, no longer to call me by the name on my fake ID. Anyway, after a long night of drinking, drug-taking and carousing, we ended up at my friend Mike's new apartment on 48th Street, in a rather nice section of that town. About 3:00am, the party started breaking up, and by 3:30am, people had left, and I was going to sleep on the couch in the living room, when I was awakened by a rather urgent feeling...
Suddenly, the night's activities took hold of my bowels, and I felt a growing urge to poop. I stumbled down the darkened hallway to the door of the only bathroom in the apartment of whose existence I was aware. Upon turning its handle and placing the weight of my shoulder against it, I was informed by its refusal to yield that it was occupied. So I went back to the living room, waiting, the urge growing stronger.
Ten minutes passed. Fifteen minutes passed, and still the bathroom's occupant had not emerged. Nor had my large intestine ceased its assault on my sphincter, so I returned to the bathroom, determined to find some way in. After knocking for several minutes and receiving no response, I took it upon myself to peer beneath the door of the bathroom. I discovered a worrying sight within: one of my friend's drunken roommates had passed out on the floor of the bathroom. It was then that sweat began to seep from my pores.
I returned to the living room to consider my options. As the turd began to crown, I realized that I wouldn't be able to make the 15-block walk home without seriously risking an accident. I looked about frantically as the proverbial jumper began edging toward the door of the aircraft. Just as I started to lose hope, I saw my salvation...
For there, in a far corner of the living room, sat a portable ice cooler, containing the water that remained from the previous day's ice, the bag that had held the ice, and a lone Budweiser, still chilled. I removed the ice bag and the beer, and proceeded, with unparalleled intensity, to let loose into the cooler. Luckily, to my joy, I produced a perfect, floating log, leaving me with a clean slate for which a splash of water sufficed. Pleased and relieved, I replaced the cooler's cover, quickly drank the remaining Budweiser, and went to sleep.
About an hour later, I awoke from what felt like a disturbing dream about crapping into a cooler. It took me only seconds to see the cooler and discover that my nightmare was, indeed, my reality. As I was still very drunk, I decided, drunkenly, to remove the cooler and its contents to the street, whereupon I dumped the turd into the gutter several doors down from Mike's apartment. After finding a hose and spraying out all trace of trouble from the cooler, I returned it to its repose in the apartment, placed the empty ice bag back in its bosom, and went to sleep. Satisfied.
"I think it's Human!!!" I awoke to the sound of an old rich lady outside, clearly mortified. At what, however, my addled brain did not, at that point, know. I put on my shoes, lit a cigarette, and walked outside to investigate. A group of older, wealthy Orange County-ites stood in the street, huddled around something, variously stating their disgust and bewilderment. I took a closer look and saw nestled against the curb what appeared to be a human turd. A good-sized one, at that. With my brain still blissfully unaware of the previous night's events, I interjected my own comment: "Whoa, that's a big 'un. Somebody's a vegetarian [as was I at the time]." Then I laughed, turned, and went back into the apartment, where I greeted my friend Mike, now awake from his slumber, with a glowing description of the mysterious turd-in-the-street.
Later that day, I remembered what happened, at about the same time that my friend Mike became suspicious of the emptied and cleaned cooler in his living room. When he asked me if I'd crapped in the cooler and then dumped it in the street, I denied it. His comment when I finally owned up, a year later? "Dude, I used that cooler like fifty times after that!"
Good times.
The night of my 21st birthday, living in posh Newport Beach, CA, a few friends and I went out to all of the local bars, at each of which I had to inform the bartender, no longer to call me by the name on my fake ID. Anyway, after a long night of drinking, drug-taking and carousing, we ended up at my friend Mike's new apartment on 48th Street, in a rather nice section of that town. About 3:00am, the party started breaking up, and by 3:30am, people had left, and I was going to sleep on the couch in the living room, when I was awakened by a rather urgent feeling...
Suddenly, the night's activities took hold of my bowels, and I felt a growing urge to poop. I stumbled down the darkened hallway to the door of the only bathroom in the apartment of whose existence I was aware. Upon turning its handle and placing the weight of my shoulder against it, I was informed by its refusal to yield that it was occupied. So I went back to the living room, waiting, the urge growing stronger.
Ten minutes passed. Fifteen minutes passed, and still the bathroom's occupant had not emerged. Nor had my large intestine ceased its assault on my sphincter, so I returned to the bathroom, determined to find some way in. After knocking for several minutes and receiving no response, I took it upon myself to peer beneath the door of the bathroom. I discovered a worrying sight within: one of my friend's drunken roommates had passed out on the floor of the bathroom. It was then that sweat began to seep from my pores.
I returned to the living room to consider my options. As the turd began to crown, I realized that I wouldn't be able to make the 15-block walk home without seriously risking an accident. I looked about frantically as the proverbial jumper began edging toward the door of the aircraft. Just as I started to lose hope, I saw my salvation...
For there, in a far corner of the living room, sat a portable ice cooler, containing the water that remained from the previous day's ice, the bag that had held the ice, and a lone Budweiser, still chilled. I removed the ice bag and the beer, and proceeded, with unparalleled intensity, to let loose into the cooler. Luckily, to my joy, I produced a perfect, floating log, leaving me with a clean slate for which a splash of water sufficed. Pleased and relieved, I replaced the cooler's cover, quickly drank the remaining Budweiser, and went to sleep.
About an hour later, I awoke from what felt like a disturbing dream about crapping into a cooler. It took me only seconds to see the cooler and discover that my nightmare was, indeed, my reality. As I was still very drunk, I decided, drunkenly, to remove the cooler and its contents to the street, whereupon I dumped the turd into the gutter several doors down from Mike's apartment. After finding a hose and spraying out all trace of trouble from the cooler, I returned it to its repose in the apartment, placed the empty ice bag back in its bosom, and went to sleep. Satisfied.
"I think it's Human!!!" I awoke to the sound of an old rich lady outside, clearly mortified. At what, however, my addled brain did not, at that point, know. I put on my shoes, lit a cigarette, and walked outside to investigate. A group of older, wealthy Orange County-ites stood in the street, huddled around something, variously stating their disgust and bewilderment. I took a closer look and saw nestled against the curb what appeared to be a human turd. A good-sized one, at that. With my brain still blissfully unaware of the previous night's events, I interjected my own comment: "Whoa, that's a big 'un. Somebody's a vegetarian [as was I at the time]." Then I laughed, turned, and went back into the apartment, where I greeted my friend Mike, now awake from his slumber, with a glowing description of the mysterious turd-in-the-street.
Later that day, I remembered what happened, at about the same time that my friend Mike became suspicious of the emptied and cleaned cooler in his living room. When he asked me if I'd crapped in the cooler and then dumped it in the street, I denied it. His comment when I finally owned up, a year later? "Dude, I used that cooler like fifty times after that!"
Good times.