The Espresso Challenge
One night several years ago, my friends and I went to a coffee shop for a drink before calling it a night. The barista took our orders, and when it was my turn, I asked for three shots of iced espresso -- my drink of choice at the time. The barista looked at me and said, "Okay, but the record is twelve shots in twenty minutes."
She was challenging me. After much back and forth, she promised me a little nameplate in the fridge case announcing my record if I were to accept and beat the challenge. I shouldn't have believed her, but being young and believing myself immortal, I replied, "Make it six shots, then."
As soon as we sat down with our drinks, I sucked down the six shots through the straw as quickly as I could. They went down surprisingly easy. I then got back up and asked for another six shots. These didn't go down as easily. About halfway through the cup I started shaking, and the taste of the espresso made me gag. Nonetheless, I got all six shots down. I had consumed twelve shots, and it had only been ten minutes.
I wasn't feeling so hot at this point. My stomach was cramping, I started shaking more, and all of a sudden I was very cold. I sat and listened to my friends' conversation, trying to keep myself together, starting to worry about what I had done to myself. "Hey, kid," I heard the barista yell, "you're doing good. The next six are on me." There was another cup of iced espresso waiting for me on the counter.
I'm not sure why -- maybe it was the toxic effects of the twelve shots I had already ingested -- but I started drinking this new cup.
At this point I was shaking so badly I could barely keep the straw in my mouth, and I began to feel the beginnings of imminent heaving. After four shots I called it quits. I couldn't take any more. I had consumed sixteen shots of iced espresso in eighteen minutes. I staggered up to the counter and told the barista of my accomplishment.
I will never forget the shocked look on her face as she slowly said, "Kid, if you have a heart attack tonight, don't tell them you were here." I realized I wasn't getting the plaque in the fridge case. My stomach churned. I started to worry.
From the coffee shop, my friends and I walked home, separating occasionally as we went down different streets to our individual houses. When it was just down to me and my friend Dan, Dan said to me, "Man, I gotta piss," to which I replied, "I don't feel so hot... I really gotta take a dump."
I really didn't feel so hot. I was trying my hardest to not explode all over the street. Confounding my attempt to squeeze my sphincter shut and my ass cheeks closed was the fact that I was trying to walk. There was a precarious balance between walking too fast and releasing the load in my pants from the exertion of walk/running home, and walking too slow and not making it home before I couldn't hold it back any more. My only hope was to balance the two extremes just right. I didn't talk much on the walk home with Dan -- I was concentrating too hard.
Finally, Dan and I diverged about two blocks from my house, him down one street and me down another. As soon as we separated I realized I was quickly approaching the point of no return. Nothing was going to hold this back!
Not one to crap my pants without a fight, I bolted for home, sprinting with everything I had. I made it about thirty feet before I started to feel it come.
I frantically looked for a secluded place on the street -- a wall, a tree, tall grass, anything! -- but there were people on the street and no safe place to go. In an act of final desperation, I ran into an alley -- the first place I saw that was even slightly inconspicuous. As soon as I was out of sight, I pulled my pants down and let go. Never in my life have I experienced anything as jarring as the chocolate pudding explosion that exited my ass at near supersonic speeds. All I could do was hold on for dear life, teeth clenched.
I know that I am going to hell because I sprayed the most hellish poop water imaginable all over some poor man's garage door.
I don't remember how long I was shitting -- I may have blacked out -- but eventually it subsided. I didn't have to look around to know there was severe damage -- I could feel and smell the wetness all over my backside. I looked for something to clean myself with, and saw the garage owner's recycled newspaper pile. I took a couple sheets and cleaned up as best I could, chuckling to myself as I thought of the scene that would greet the owner in the morning. "It must have been a sick bear," he would say.
As I walked home, relieved, I began to feel the rumblings of Round Two. Little did I know that that night I could compare myself to Old Faithful -- erupting every twenty minutes all night long.
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Espresso Poop Story
