The Shot

By: CT
October 3, 2005

On a surprisingly chilly early afternoon I decide to skip class and read in the library. Why did I skip class? Because my teacher is a freak. Not a hippy freak, or a smelly freak, she is a legitimate weirdo. She went to school at UCSC and Berkeley back in the 70s, and is a prime example of why one should never use drugs. She randomly goes off on tangents about one of her pet turtles, her husband, or how many birds she saw on the way to work. She also sports a series of nervous ticks, clearly an affect of one too many tabs of acid. You can tell she tries her best to get through class, but nearly 80% of it is spent on her trying to turn on the computer for the projector. She tends to shoot me bad looks as well. Well not just me, the other senior that sits next to me too. She has this weird gap between her front two teeth, so when she speaks, she whistles, much like the groundhog from Winnie the Pooh. Somedays I just can’t take it, and today was one of those days.
So I get to the library and I feel a little churning in my stomach. Perhaps because today’s lunch consisted of a large glass of O.J. and a Bagel Dog; without a doubt the most lethal combo to a colon.

I sprint up the stairs to the 3rd floor because that floor’s handicap bathroom is the best in the building. Once again I feel that distant thunder that’s slowly creeping down into my tailbone and it makes my knees wobble. I push open the door and just barely make it, but I still go through my usual ritual:

1. take a toilet seat cover and wipe off the seat regardless of if it looks dirty or not
2. take another toilet seat cover, carefully rip out the middle and commence the pooping

Step 2 is normally smooth, but today was different. Maybe it was the feeling of having a stick of TNT up my ass, or maybe it was the dim lighting, but I just couldn’t finish step 2. The first try I ripped the side of the cover. The second try I ripped the front. The third try I ripped the cover in half over the frustration of the first two failures. Looking back, I think the reason for not being able to get the job done within three tries was due to the fact I was in my patented full-on “Panic Dance”. That’s where you are tapping your feet faster than the “Lord of the Dance” Michael Flantley while holding your butt.

So finally on the fourth try I get the cover down without ripping it, yet when I am about to sit, the toilet automatically flushes because I moved, thus sucking the cover in with it. What I said following this cannot be written on this website. The fifth try finally is the charm I suppose. I get it down, and literally jump on the toilet.
Oh man.

It started with a nine second fart. Literally nine seconds. Go ahead, stop reading, and count from “one alligator” to “nine alligator”. That’s how long it was. And of course it ended with a high pitching noise that can’t even be described with words, but everyone knows what it sounds like. I figured that was the Orange Juice section of my lunch. To come was the three way heavyweight battle between myself, the Bagel Dog, and the innocent toilet my bowels were holding hostage.

I swear this thing came out so fast, if I pointed my butt up, it would have reached terminal velocity and exited orbit. The thing hits the water like a depth charge and now my butt is soaking wet. I felt round two coming up and I quickly checked my phone to see if it could record sounds. I couldn’t find it in time and crapped again, which had a pocket of gas in the middle of it which made the last half of the log explode outward and all over the bowl. The stench from this was so obscene I couldn’t help but giggle. I wished someone was in the stall next to me so they could have a first hand account of what was going on. What a great story this would be for their grandkids.

I eventually got up after disposing of three pounds of tp, knees still shaking, tired but victorious, take a look in the mirror while power scrubbing my hands, and saw a little bead of sweat roll down my cheek. And I thought to myself, “What a champion”.