Breakfast With Family
Relatives were in town for a few days. So of course we all have to get together for more than just a visit. My great uncle suggests we all go out for breakfast on Sunday morning.
I hate going out for breakfast in groups. It's always a big ordeal. I mean, I love going out for breakfast. In fact, there's this little joint right near where I work. They have a breakfast special for only $2.49 -- eggs, bacon, toast, and they'll throw in potatoes or pancakes for an extra buck. Not a bad deal. But with a group, of course, it ain't going to be a diner. We have to go to some place called "Char Don On Bleu" -- what the fuck kinda name is that? They feature steaks and seafood for dinner, and while they're all pretty good, I've never gone there for breakfast. One look at the menu and I know why: I think the cheapest thing was a basic egg-and-toast dish for like five dollars.
But my uncle will pick up the bill, so why should I care? Of course, my uncle insists that everyone try the "Farmer's Breakfast." What in the hell is a farmer's breakfast and why should I choose it? I'm a video tech, for cris' sake. Why is it that wherever you go for breakfast they all have some godforsaken name for a big breakfast called "Hobo's Mess" or "Super Slam" or something. Just call it a "big breakfast" and be done with it.
There's twelve at our table, including my little nephew making some fart noises. Beyond that, it's nothing but old people complaining about social security and being on fixed incomes. We're all on fixed incomes, unless there's overtime! Get a part-time job as a greeter at Wal-Mart if you need extra money. That doesn't require much effort or brains. Just an ability to say "hi" and hand someone a shopping cart.
Most of us order the silly Farmer's Breakfast, which the menu says is a mound of potatoes topped with scrambled eggs, cheese, onions, tomatoes, green peppers, bacon, and ham. Plus toast. I think this thing costs around ten dollars a plate. I could give a damn about the cost, since my uncle on a fixed income is going to pick up the tab; no, my mind is on the amount of shit that this breakfast will create in my intestines. Plus, breakfast goes through me quick. Real quick. And at the rate I'm going to digest this meal, I may not make it back to my house for the asshole extraction.
Now those of you who know me know that I can piss anywhere. I mean, I can whip out the one-eyed and take a leak in a fireplace with a roaring blaze in progress, or while swimming in a public pool, or off the side of the Grand Canyon while enjoying the view. But when it comes to taking a dump, I have to hold it until I can get home and enjoy the privacy of my own shithouse. I mean, I don't care if I'm visiting the White House and have the opportunity to shit in the presidential crapper. I need only my own commode.
Around this time, I hear the old folks talking about being regular. I'm thinking to myself, "If you're not regular eating this mess, you got a problem."
At a restaurant like this with such a big order, you sit around and wait... and wait... and wait. I must have already had six cups of coffee, 'cause now I gotta piss. Now, pissing... that's no problem. I can piss anywhere... in a drainage ditch... in the sink of a crowded public restroom... in a cat's litter box...
So I head for the john of this extra-nice restaurant. Now when I get there, I am in for a surprise. Yes, it was a nice washroom -- nice carpeting, nice fixtures, clean mirror, private stalls. But man, did it stink! I couldn't believe it. Here we have this nice looking john, complete with music being piped in, stinking like a public outhouse at a remote highway rest area.
I hurriedly take a nice, relief-providing leak, wash my hands, and get back to my table. I have no problem draining the vein anywhere... in a laundry room on the first floor of an apartment building... off the top of the village water tower... even in a fancy restaurant shithouse that smells like an old-folks home.
When I sit back down, one of my relatives goes to use the john. I guess I should have warned him, but what would his options have been?
The conversation at the table is now the discussion about the good ol' days.
What's so good about those days? Back then you had to take a shit in a little shed out back and wipe your ass with the Sears catalog. What the hell did you do on a cold winter day if you had the shits? Mercy -- that would be a living hell!
One of my old uncles comes back from the john and says, "Man, does it reek in there." I tell him I noticed it, too. "How can you NOT notice it?" the old man responds. So one of the kids says he wants to go check it out. I'm thinking to myself, "You should've been around to check out the masterpiece I left for the world at a movie theater a few years ago."
Forty minutes after we order, the breakfasts arrive.
It was really good. Or maybe I was just starved from waiting so damn long. Either way, I finished the whole greasy mess.
Of course, you can't eat and run -- you have to visit. Except my metabolism has no time to just visit. I really needed to run home. Very soon. But it was apparent that there was no way I could just take off for home at that very moment. Even if I did, I still had a forty-minute ride. And it would be next to impossible to hold on to a breakfast shit that long.
Although, I once held on to my shit for a ten-hour bus ride.
But a greasy breakfast shit is so much different. With a greasy breakfast shit, when you gotta go, you absolutely gotta go.
Finished with our farmer's feast, we talked and drank even more coffee, and I felt that unmistakable rumble in shit city. I knew this puppy was crying out for the almighty relief. I excused myself and was ready to make a beeline for that fancy and stinky shithouse when one of my young nephews says, "Uncle Joel, I'm going to go with you." My sister says, "Yes, please, take him and keep an eye on him."
So not only am I going to have to take my massive gassive in a strange and stinky shitter, but I gotta baby-sit this little bastard, too,
I say c'mon and we hit the head and I aim for the stall while the nephew goes to a low-mounted (handicapped?) urinal. I drop trou, sit on that seat (not even bothering to check if it's clean), and cut loose with a G-force that could launch a space shuttle.
My nephew hears and asks, "Are you going cock-kah?"
"Yes!" I shout out. "What do you think I'm doing in here?"
The little bastard starts laughing. I tell him to cut it out or I'm going to shit on his face. Then he starts crying. I tell him to shut up and wash his hands.
My shit was short. With the force I built up from breakfast, it didn't take long to empty my shit bladder. I wiped and of course looked at my masterpiece. Chunks of corn from a previous meal were part of the mix. I knew that the power shit probably left the bottom of the seat stained, but what do I care? Let that fuckin' janitor earn his paycheck... he sure can't seem to get rid of the piss smell.
I take my nephew back to the breakfast table and hear the little guy announce to the group, "Uncle Joel took a noisy number two."
One of my aunts asks, "Are you sick?"
Now why in the fuck does this old bag automatically assume I'm sick because I took a shit?
So I politely respond that I had a little gas from the previous day's meal. Next thing you know, the old folks hold this big discussion about all the foods that give them gas.
I'm not looking forward to their next visit at all.
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Breakfast Poop Story