Poop attack
Have you ever threatened to poop in someone's shower? I mean, as an adult, not as an angry kid who just got her Legos taken away because Mom found out she was depositing her half-chewed veggies behind the TV? (sidenote: I hope my kids are smarter than me)
Well, if you said no, then you and I have one less thing in common.
Saturday morning, I had an epic attack of the poos. I mean, epic. This shiznit literally seemed to come out of nowhere. (Or perhaps, just maybe, a little, the Korean food paired with the wine, followed by the beer, followed by the more beer, capped off with a slice of pizza at 2:15AM had something to do with it. Bygones....)
LTR Shim and I woke up, and we had quite the Saturday planned. We were heading to pick up a piece of furniture that he somehow bartered from a Rick Ross lookalike at a local fixture place (I swear they were doing a crack deal--except that LTR Shim looks like Bradley Cooper and sounds like a Kennedy--apparently they makes 'em gangsta in Cape Cod). Then some of my Big Booty Ho crew from the Gooch was coming into town, and we were gonna hit the town after some football in the afternoon.
Well, my colon had a problem with this.
Upon awakening, my gut wretched into one major cramp. A cramp with more urgency than those felt during the great diet flu of 2009. I knew it wasn't THAT kind of a cramp--my Diva Cup is barely dry from its recent wash--so I knew the cramp could mean only one thing:
Time to hit the freaking head.
Now, time for a brief foray into the world of toilet talk (you know, a world I so rarely visit). Everybody and every animal poos. But I am extremely fascinated, and proud, that we as a species have come up with so many ways to say "poop," as in the verb. Some of my faves:
Take a dump.
Make a poop.
Cop a squat.
Heave a Havana.
Pinch a loaf.
Ride the Hershey Highway.
Take the Browns to the Superbowl.
Visit the defecation station.
Giving birth to the black eel.
Dropping the kids off at the pool.
Dropping a load.
(These are the ones I know, but apparently there are many, many more.....thanks Internet!)
Anyways, so it was one of those that, you know, as you're laying down, you're all fine and dandy. I mean, you feel like you're holding in an enema, but that's much easier to do when you're laying down.
But you know, as soon as you get vertical, you might have to clench like you're trying to keep a fire inside of your ass. Which is actually exactly what it feels like. There's a burning sensation that can't be explained, and you start to wonder if someone randomly used your rectum as an oven burner for a jalapeno roast.
Annnnyhotburningmess, so I get vertical and begin a sprint to the bathroom. I have no problem telling LTR Shim that I am about to battleship sink his porcelain god.
But of course, there are problems. Time-consuming problems. Problems that don't happen when you have the ability to take a long, relaxing, perfectly-tapered poo after some Sunday morning scrapple. Problem that only occur when a tsunami is about to burst from your ass.
My problems included:
1. Lots of toilet paper.
2. My brush nearby. So I could at least walk out without having bed head.
So I'm clenching my buttcheeks, flushing a toilet with one hand, fighting a window blind with another to let some air in (one can gauge smell by the burn, and since my burn was at about the Taco Bell "scorcher" level, I could just tell it wasn't going to be good....)
I finally get down to business. And boy, this is not like just regular business. This is like Dow-Jones-just-grew-100-points business. (At least in the toilet paper sector. And the toilet sector. Because I thought we might need to buy a new one after this hurricane ripped through.)
Okay. Round One OVER. I felt like I had given birth to the blob or the swampmonster.
All this time, poor LTR Shim hadn't even gotten to take a morning pee. And here I was, holding the bathroom hostage. I think his dog may have walked in, and I swear I heard her yelp out with her tail between her legs. It was THAT bad.
So LTR Shim comes in as I am breathing in a post-marathon-ish pattern. I mean, I had done a lot of work. I bet I lost AT least as many pounds as someone who runs a marathon.
I decide to hop right in the shower. This was one of those poos that you can wipe, and wipe, and wipe until you've wiped your ass raw, and you still don't feel like you've quite gotten it all.
So into the shower I go, apologizing profusely to LTR and telling him that the bathroom had smelled funny when I entered in the first place. (I lie.)
About 4 minutes later.....
Round Two.
I'm relaxing, washing the funk outta my hair, getting the gross out, admiring my newly-toned tummy (okay, it wasn't toned but I hadn't eaten, and had just heaved out at least 20 lbs, so damnit I felt skinny). And all the sudden, the cramp comes again.
LTR's just out there doing his thang. He was trying to relax and enjoy a nice Saturday morning. Tryin to get the teefs brushed and the hair did and the magazine read.
And I threatened him with a "If you're still in here...I can't...I need you to......
"I'm bout to poop in your shower."
I think, for a brief moment, LTR turned into that comic book Flash guy. I felt a quick breeze, was tossed a towel, and was told to have at it. I was even told that I didn't need to dry off if I needed to get right on the throne.
So SWEET, that LTR!
So I hit it for the second time. Hit it hard. LTR commented on the symphony that I made. I pondered making a mix tape of my sighs and cries and splashes. Surely, there must be an app for that.
And on it went. We did eventually have to go to pick up the piece of furniture, and I was struck again by the Diarrhea Devil. I pondered running to a purple Port-a-Potty on MLK Jr. Blvd, but thought better of it. I have never sprinted so fast from the car to the house door, leaving LTR to haul a 200-lb piece of furniture on his own while I hauled a 200-lb crap out of my butt for the fourth time in a morning.
Well, needless to say, I survived, and I showed that crap who was boss.
Yep.
That's right.
I am, quite literally, The Sh*t.*
Well, if you said no, then you and I have one less thing in common.
Saturday morning, I had an epic attack of the poos. I mean, epic. This shiznit literally seemed to come out of nowhere. (Or perhaps, just maybe, a little, the Korean food paired with the wine, followed by the beer, followed by the more beer, capped off with a slice of pizza at 2:15AM had something to do with it. Bygones....)
LTR Shim and I woke up, and we had quite the Saturday planned. We were heading to pick up a piece of furniture that he somehow bartered from a Rick Ross lookalike at a local fixture place (I swear they were doing a crack deal--except that LTR Shim looks like Bradley Cooper and sounds like a Kennedy--apparently they makes 'em gangsta in Cape Cod). Then some of my Big Booty Ho crew from the Gooch was coming into town, and we were gonna hit the town after some football in the afternoon.
Well, my colon had a problem with this.
Upon awakening, my gut wretched into one major cramp. A cramp with more urgency than those felt during the great diet flu of 2009. I knew it wasn't THAT kind of a cramp--my Diva Cup is barely dry from its recent wash--so I knew the cramp could mean only one thing:
Time to hit the freaking head.
Now, time for a brief foray into the world of toilet talk (you know, a world I so rarely visit). Everybody and every animal poos. But I am extremely fascinated, and proud, that we as a species have come up with so many ways to say "poop," as in the verb. Some of my faves:
Take a dump.
Make a poop.
Cop a squat.
Heave a Havana.
Pinch a loaf.
Ride the Hershey Highway.
Take the Browns to the Superbowl.
Visit the defecation station.
Giving birth to the black eel.
Dropping the kids off at the pool.
Dropping a load.
(These are the ones I know, but apparently there are many, many more.....thanks Internet!)
Anyways, so it was one of those that, you know, as you're laying down, you're all fine and dandy. I mean, you feel like you're holding in an enema, but that's much easier to do when you're laying down.
But you know, as soon as you get vertical, you might have to clench like you're trying to keep a fire inside of your ass. Which is actually exactly what it feels like. There's a burning sensation that can't be explained, and you start to wonder if someone randomly used your rectum as an oven burner for a jalapeno roast.
Annnnyhotburningmess, so I get vertical and begin a sprint to the bathroom. I have no problem telling LTR Shim that I am about to battleship sink his porcelain god.
But of course, there are problems. Time-consuming problems. Problems that don't happen when you have the ability to take a long, relaxing, perfectly-tapered poo after some Sunday morning scrapple. Problem that only occur when a tsunami is about to burst from your ass.
My problems included:
- The door not closing behind me.
- The window not being open.
- Nothing to read except the back of the toothpaste bottle.
- The toilet not being flushed prior (no one wants splashback!).
1. Lots of toilet paper.
2. My brush nearby. So I could at least walk out without having bed head.
So I'm clenching my buttcheeks, flushing a toilet with one hand, fighting a window blind with another to let some air in (one can gauge smell by the burn, and since my burn was at about the Taco Bell "scorcher" level, I could just tell it wasn't going to be good....)
I finally get down to business. And boy, this is not like just regular business. This is like Dow-Jones-just-grew-100-points business. (At least in the toilet paper sector. And the toilet sector. Because I thought we might need to buy a new one after this hurricane ripped through.)
Okay. Round One OVER. I felt like I had given birth to the blob or the swampmonster.
All this time, poor LTR Shim hadn't even gotten to take a morning pee. And here I was, holding the bathroom hostage. I think his dog may have walked in, and I swear I heard her yelp out with her tail between her legs. It was THAT bad.
So LTR Shim comes in as I am breathing in a post-marathon-ish pattern. I mean, I had done a lot of work. I bet I lost AT least as many pounds as someone who runs a marathon.
I decide to hop right in the shower. This was one of those poos that you can wipe, and wipe, and wipe until you've wiped your ass raw, and you still don't feel like you've quite gotten it all.
So into the shower I go, apologizing profusely to LTR and telling him that the bathroom had smelled funny when I entered in the first place. (I lie.)
About 4 minutes later.....
Round Two.
I'm relaxing, washing the funk outta my hair, getting the gross out, admiring my newly-toned tummy (okay, it wasn't toned but I hadn't eaten, and had just heaved out at least 20 lbs, so damnit I felt skinny). And all the sudden, the cramp comes again.
LTR's just out there doing his thang. He was trying to relax and enjoy a nice Saturday morning. Tryin to get the teefs brushed and the hair did and the magazine read.
And I threatened him with a "If you're still in here...I can't...I need you to......
"I'm bout to poop in your shower."
I think, for a brief moment, LTR turned into that comic book Flash guy. I felt a quick breeze, was tossed a towel, and was told to have at it. I was even told that I didn't need to dry off if I needed to get right on the throne.
So SWEET, that LTR!
So I hit it for the second time. Hit it hard. LTR commented on the symphony that I made. I pondered making a mix tape of my sighs and cries and splashes. Surely, there must be an app for that.
And on it went. We did eventually have to go to pick up the piece of furniture, and I was struck again by the Diarrhea Devil. I pondered running to a purple Port-a-Potty on MLK Jr. Blvd, but thought better of it. I have never sprinted so fast from the car to the house door, leaving LTR to haul a 200-lb piece of furniture on his own while I hauled a 200-lb crap out of my butt for the fourth time in a morning.
Well, needless to say, I survived, and I showed that crap who was boss.
Yep.
That's right.
I am, quite literally, The Sh*t.*
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