Thank God. My English class was finally over.


I had felt the rumbling in my bowels for the last 15 minutes, but had been too much of a pussy to go to the bathroom during the last few minutes of class, so I had shifted and waited with increasing pain at my desk until the interminable minutes ticked away.

As soon as 12:30 struck, I quickly shoved all my books into my bag and rushed down the stairs, out the door, and beelined for the men's room.

I felt like I was going to explode.

The shit had been fermenting in my intestines for some time now: the torpedo hatch had been loaded and it was being fired out of my ass whether I liked it or not.

The only question was whether I was going to make it to the little boy's room or shit my pants.

As I awkwardly waddled into the men's room, I ripped off my belt and my pants and miraculously managed to get my anus over the toilet bowel just as I lost all control of my defecating orifices.

Sadly, this was not just your normal shit. Not one of those nuclear explosions.


Oh, no.


This was going to be one of those marathon shits.

The kind where you bring the Sunday newspaper into the stall and leave with the crossword puzzle finished and the sports section folded nine different ways.

Literally seconds after I had begun the arduous journey through my marathon shit that was sure to last at least half the day, the bathroom door creaked.

Someone else was coming in.

Now, whether we like to admit it or not, we're all a little embarrassed when taking shits in public bathrooms. You have to stifle the guttural grunts and moans in your stall, and pray that someone doesn't recognize your New Balances through the bottom of the door.

I, however, rolled into a different problem.


A handicapped guy. A disgruntled one.


This cripple rolled in on his wheelchair, sitting high and mighty, obviously pissed because he couldn't walk.

It was then that the danger of my situation hit me.

I was in the beginning of my marathon shit, really not even through the first mile, and the worst part was that I was sitting in the "big" stall.

Yeah, the one for cripples, with the big ass door and the high, cushy toilet seat.

And here was this wheelchair-stricken cripple who obviously had not rolled into the bathroom to take a piss.


"Aw, fuck." I muttered. This was only going to get worse.

After a few minutes of extreme awkwardness, I heard a loud banging on the stall door.


"Hey buddy, you gonna finish taking that shit in my stall anytime today? I got a turtle head poking out."

"Uh, yeah, sure. I'm getting there."

"Getting there? Let's try and make it snappy, I ain't got all day to wait around for you to shit."

"Yeah..."


So I was dealing with a cripple with an attitude. Never a good combination.

And to make matters worse, I was nowhere near finishing my shit. My colon was more backed up than a forty year old septic tank. I wasn't going anywhere in a hurry.

As I sat there, bearing down in a fruitless effort to relieve my insides of the devilish marathon shit, my crippled counterpart began banging on the door again.


"Look buddy, I really gotta shit. Pinch it off and move over to the other stall."

"Pinching it off" as he put it, was completely out of the question. The shit was pouring out of my ass like Niagra Falls. No way I was pinching that shit.

"Well, buddy, I can sympathize with your situation, but I'm taking a pretty big shit here, so why don't you just wait, or maybe you could grow some legs and take a shit in the other stall."


The shit had made me a little emotional, and my crankiness had gotten the best of me.

Bad idea.



Note to self: Never piss off crippled people.


"GROW SOME LEGS?! Oh, you better be fucking kidding me you sonuvabtich!"


As I jumped off the toilet seat in fear of the mammoth cry that had emanated from the other side of the stall door, the door came flying in and the largest black man in a wheelchair I have ever seen wedged his bulging muscular torso through the open stall door and rolled towards me with lightning speed.

The veins on his arms were the size of my fingers. On his face was a scowl that would have made Mr. T look like a puppy dog. His intention was clear - he was going to pick me up and break me in half.


I sat there in pure fear.


Trepidation literally flowed through my veins.


And in the matter of a few seconds, the toilet was clogged.



I had finished my marathon shit.


He'd scared the shit out of me.