Great Moments In Poop History
Oh, we've got a real treat for you poopers out there to start the year. It's a poop novella from our favorite combat vet, Matty Ufford.
I had pretty bad diarrhea at the 1999 Tibetan Freedom Concert (this was the one in Wisconsin — Rage and the Roots stole the show). If you've never had intense diarrhea on a hot day at a concert where port-o-johns with long lines are the only option, I don't recommend it.
But that isn't my poop story: it is merely the foundation of it. The diarrhea-in-public thing inspired me to take some Immodium. But I was still pissing out my ***, so I took some more. And then some more. Then, a little more. Eventually, it worked — really worked. I didn't crap for something like three days. My guts were heavy with waste.
Three days later, I'm over at my girlfriend Kristina's apartment. She and her three attractive roommates are downstairs hanging out with our friends who live downstairs, but I decide to lay down in my girlfriend's bed because — surprise — I'm not feeling well.
And then the tidal wave hit. I rushed to bathroom and crapped my guts out. Oh, how I crapped. It was orgasmic. Three and a half days of feces in one bowel movement. So. Much. ****. More **** than you've ever seen in one toilet. Zookeepers don't see ****s this big. It wasn't identifiable turds so much as a mold of my intestines. In retrospect, I kind of wish I'd taken a picture.
So I go to flush and —
FLASHBACK TO 90 MINUTES EARLIER
Kristina: Hey, our toilet's broken, so if you have to go, use Ben and Lindsay's downstairs.
Matt: Right.
— the toilet handle does nothing. I have just taken the most gigantic dump of my life in my girlfriend's toilet, and it ain't going anywhere. My life has just become the most preposterous poop joke in cinematic history. To this day, I no longer laugh at Jeff Daniels' misfortune in Dumb and Dumber. And let me tell you something else: if that happens to you, you will try everything that Harry Dunne does. That scene is ****ing REAL.
So I go downstairs and find Kristina, pull her aside. "You must call a plumber IMMEDIATELY."
"What? Why?"
"Uh, I kinda forgot about your toilet not working, annnnnd..."
The plumber is unable to get to the apartment until the next day. I make Kristina swear a solemn oath to not look in the toilet — "No matter what. I'm serious. You will never be attracted to me again if you do" — then I go upstairs and put a sign on the lid that reads something like DO NOT LIFT THE SEAT UP. SERIOUSLY. DON'T. YOU WILL REGRET IT.
After all this excitement, I go back to bed. From there, I see one of Kristina's roommates enter the bathroom. Theoretically, I could have gotten up and told her what happened. I could have called out to her. But no: I was paralyzed, helpless but to watch events unfold, a spectator in my own life. Fate had stolen my mobility, my voice.
The door to the bathroom closes. I can hear the pause; I can feel it. The pause is a living, breathing creature. No: it is a storm front. Meteorologists are reporting about the pause's arrival, warning of the damage that might ensue. Buy jugs of clean water. Duct tape the windows. This is the big one, folks.
Then: "Ohmygod." It is said as one word, quietly. Said with awe, shock, wonder, fear. Like coming home, opening your front door, and in place of your living room is a sunny meadow with a slaughtered unicorn. That is the fearsome size of this dump.
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