The IHOP Dash
I'll give you some background on me: I poop A L O T. I poop
three or four times before lunch, and usually crap within two minutes of finishing a meal. I poop when I laugh too hard, I poop when I'm angry, and I poop when I'm drunk. And sometimes I just poop because it's time to poop.
Recently I was out with my wife and kids, doing some grocery shopping at the local Mexi-Vegi-Meat Mart, idling away, waiting for my number to be called at the meat counter. This was a Sunday, when we do all our grocery shopping after a trip to IHOP, which usually features two carafes of coffee with breakfast. By time I've left IHOP, I've pooped at least twice.
Standing in line, talking about the week ahead in our busy lives, I'm struck by a painful, burning stab in my middle abdomen. This sharp pain is accompanied by forty-five seconds worth of belly gurgling that condenses down into an excruciating five-second explosion. Instantly I start sweating bullets, grimacing with my teeth tightly clenched, looking around, trying to guess where the bathroom might be.
My beloved wife asks, "Are you okay?"
All I get out was "Nuurggh!" before another five-second internal explosion in my gut cuts me off. I turn and run -- well, rapidly shuffle -- with my ass cheeks clenched against the force of three eggs, three pancakes, four pieces of bacon and four sausages washed down with seven or eight cups of coffee all trying to explode out like a wet brown cannonball. I end up running toward the back of the store, down a long, thin, produce-lined hallway. I am now shuffling with the assplosion barely held in check; every few steps I'm stopped by a monstrous echoing gurgle from my gut. Seeing the look on my face and my awkward step, an employee just points to the bathroom door -- through which I actually leap.
In one single motion I slam the door, locking it with my left hand as I use my right to unhitch my belt and drop trou and shorts. I aim my ass toward the lovely (and surprisingly clean) porcelain queen ready to swallow down the dis-ass-terous load of the remains of my breakfast, and begin the short, but ultimately futile, descent to the seat. With four inches between my ass cheeks and the cold plastic circle of the seat, my sphincter gives way and a good two pounds of wet, foamy shit explodes from my anus, splashing the seat, the tank, the wall behind the toilet and some into the bowl itself. Instantly that horrid stench which I am known to produce fills the room, and my eyes start watering.
Following the first half-second of my poop, I plop down into the filth on the seat and proceed to drop another two or three pounds of wet, foamy shit. Finally I stand up, making sure I'm done, and look around for toilet paper. Much to my absolute horror, there's none. But then my eyes hone in on something even better: a canister of baby wipes sitting across the room.
In the end, I didn't clean up the can at all -- just my bum. And I continued shopping for a good forty minutes, too.
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IHOP Poop Story
