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Dee Yun: (contact-deleteme[at]-deleteme-direman [dot] com) 2008-05-09 04:04:55
Once again, The Adventures of Dave the Direman draws upon that wellspring of ultimate inspiration: poop jokes.
I know that NFL players just pee in their pads, and I assume medieval knights in full plate didn't give dropping a deuce much thought in an emergency. Iron Man was a terrific movie, but from what I could see, Tony Stark didn't install any sort of rectal evacuation function. This is a massive oversight; I think we all eventually have these moments.
You know, it's that sudden uncertain horror when your innards rumble that liquid growl, and you realize that you're nowhere near a toilet. You respond by telling yourself that it's psychological, that it's simply an issue of mind over matter and that you have complete mastery over your own bowel movements. Surely you can hold it until proper facilities can be reached. Meanwhile, your entire lower digestive tract is groaning under the increasing pressure and warning you that the bulkheads are nearing maximum capacity. "I'll hold as long as I can," it says, "but it'll come, and it'll come soon. And when it does, it will be explosive."
I had one of these moments while driving across town late at night. I was on the freeway, at least half an hour from home. I didn't want to hassle with getting off the highway and searching for a public restroom, and figured that I'd easily make it home. I can't remember the precise moment I began to doubt that assessment, but a sudden rippling and bloated stabbing sensation informed me that not only was I wrong, I was imminently wrong. I clenched my posterior, desperately racking my brain for the location of any nearby 24-hour diners that might be open, and trying to stave off my rising panic.
Salvation! I remembered a local park where I used to play basketball in my youth. I told my rectum, "It's cool. Don't worry. Just sit tight and we'll be good in a few minutes." In response, it seized up in a final expenditure of strength, like a marathon runner mustering the will to sprint the last several strides. So I hop off the freeway, park the car, and walk (sort of funny) up to the bathroom...and it's chained up. WTF. They never used to lock it up. "Oh shit," I thought to myself.
"That's right!" my sphincter exclaimed, before giving out. At that point, necessity trumped all other concerns. I barely had time to undo my belt before unleashing into a nearby planter. My mind went blank as I surrendered to the sweet, sweet relief of release. I knew nothing but the groaning oblivion of strained squatting to evacuate my overloaded colon.
That's when the cops rolled up.
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