In my years walking this Earth, there are three things I have come to fear:
- Any blunt impact to the balls. That hurts beyond words.
- Ex-girlfriends who call months after you break up to say "I'm pregnant" when they're not, just to torment you.
- Waking up with a violent urge to defecate.
Naturally, this story is about number three.
I am a college student. I eat cheap food and get bad shits. I live in a two-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment with a total stranger whom I also happen to work with. The crapper is so weak that if you just put a few squares of toilet paper in after a false alarm, you still reach for the plunger. Nevertheless, the problem of this day was not so much the weakness of the facility but the presence of said roommate's hot girlfriend staying the weekend.
When I awoke around noon on Saturday, I immediately noticed something was amok. I normally come to slowly. But this was an Earth shattering "WAKE UP NOW!" Then it hit me: my gut was violently angry and ready to start bursting through the side of my stomach if I didn't let it out the bottom hole.
My room was right across the hall from the bathroom, so I leapt out of bed, tossing the covers aside and clawing the door open, ready to make a graceful landing on the toilet. That was when I noticed the bathroom door was shut and the light was on underneath the door.
"Oh shit," I thought. I pondered knocking. If it were my roommate, I'd tell him to hurry up before I had an assplosion. But if it were his girlfriend, I would politely ask for her to be brief. I absolutely hate disturbing people in the bathroom -- I want my bathroom time to be *my time*, and it's reasonable for me to extend the same courtesy to others. But then a spasm gripped my insides and pain shot through my abdomen. So it was knocking time.
It was right then that I heard the sounds of toilet paper being ripped off. I took this to be a sweet sign of victory, a signal that he or she was almost done and that I would simply wait it out for the thirty seconds or so it should take.
Then I heard the shower turn on.
It isn't so much as a shower as it is a pipe coming out of the wall with a blown-out showerhead. It is more like a garden hose. Thus it makes a ridiculously loud splashing noise that can drown out the noise from gunshots or any other domestic disturbance. I knocked loud and quick, hoping that there would be a response. Nothing. I knocked some more. Nothing. The sound of falling water changed, indicating something had modified its path. I knocked again. Nothing.
In my focus on getting into the bathroom, I had been so distracted that the pain and urge had subsided a little. I started to think rationally again. This meant I had to find out if it was my roommate or his girlfriend in there. If it was him, I was coming in and that was that. So I slipped into his room to see who was in bed. Of course, it was him. Damn it.
Another wave of pain hit me and threatened to drop a fuel air bomb in the hallway. That was it -- time to go! I was going in and dropping a bomb. Most likely, she wouldn't ever hear me. I'd just have to announce my presence.
My hand hit the knob and disaster struck: she had locked the door. And this wasn't the standard bathroom lock you can pick with a paper clip -- this was an industrial L-shaped handicapped door handle.
This was enough to start a panic in my bowels. I briefly thought about my options. There weren't any nearby gas stations or stores, and I would rather shit my pants than my car seat. I had a friend on the third floor who would be an option if he was home, but the though of stairs scared me as I was clenched up like a rat on race day. I looked around the room. The only thing I could see that had a chance was the trashcan. Normally I didn't put bags in it, since the dumpster was right outside the door and I didn't want to spend the money on trash bags. That's what I get for being a cheap-ass. So I had to find a bag, since I had to salvage that trashcan!
I hobbled out to the kitchen to find a couple of plastic grocery bags. "Better double bag it," I thought, and took two. I carefully positioned them into the trashcan and then ganked a box of Kleenexes from the living room. I was never good at hovering, so I set the small, round trashcan against the wall so I could lean.
I had a bit of a fear doing this "in-room shitting", as the paper-thin walls would surely leave no wonder as to what was going on, should my roommate wake up. Still, I stripped down, hoping that the shower would shut off.
A noise came from inside me that could only be described as an angry Hutt ordering Han Solo to his death. I wasn't sure what I did to offend the shit gods, but it must have been truly blasphemous. I felt a violent burst of pressure; the necessary venting of turd propellant was upon me. Ever so carefully, I tried to only let gas pass.
A stupid mistake. The hot liquid on my cheeks instantly told me this was a moment of shame.
Right then I plopped down on the trash can and let fly. The first blast hit the metal bottom with a strange clang and a bizarre cacophony of violent gas, liquid splatter, and the occasional solid projectile echoing in this tiny metal chamber. Add in the strange rustling of plastic as shit pummeled it. Sweet, sweet pressure relief flooded over my innards as I kept venting.
Finally it came to a close, and I stood up from my wall-mounted rescue.
It became apparent, as I looked over, that I had let fly a touch before I landed. There was a burst of shit that had missed the round can and splattered on the wall and beige carpet. Okay, step one: empty this stinking, fetid mess from the trashcan. Then proceed to step two: clean up the wall and the carpet.
I went to pull the bag out and quickly discovered that the damn plastic bags obviously had holes in them, as liquid poo was flowing around the outside of them. F.Y.I. to all readers: do NOT liquishit into a grocery bag or a stupid round trashcan if you can't aim. Oh, yeah: buy trash bags, too.
To make a long finale short: I tossed the trash can, went through two cans of carpet cleaner, and had to buy an air freshener for my room. My roommate's damn girlfriend took about a forty-five minute shower. I can't wait to have my own place and my own shitter, which I will keep, under lock and key, for me and only me.