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5:09 p.m. - 2007-03-16

SINCE WHEN DID I HAVE DIGNITY?

So today we're all sitting at work with nothing to do and I open my big fat mouth.

"I almost stopped and got us all some doughnuts this morning."

At that point, I am chastised for ten minutes for even bringing the subject up. When asked why I didn't stop to get doughnuts, I replied "I was running late."

"You are ALWAYS running late," Kiki said. "That's no excuse."

So I was forced to go out into the rain to buy doughnuts from Krispy Kreme.

I came back with a dozen hot fresh doughnuts and a dozen of the specialty doughnuts ... jelly filled, creme filled, eclairs, sprinkly doughnuts ... you get the gist.

So I walk in with 24 doughnuts for 8 people and I tell them "Everybody get three apiece".

And they all eat like half of a doughnut apiece.

So me ... being force fed as a child and told all about the starving kids in Africa and China and wherever the hell else kids starve ... eats four doughnuts.

Three hours later, it's lunch time.

Leftover spaghetti for ol' Bobby.

I heat it up and eat it up.

It's now roughly noon o'clock.

We're all bored with nothing to do and I figure I'd rather skip out on the rest of the day and go home to clean up my office.

Boss says that's fine and I'm outta there.

It's now roughly ten after noon.

And traffic is horrible on the roads.

Suddenly ... ahem.

Okay kids ... here goes nothing.

We're going to touch on something that few bloggers ever really want to touch on.

And that is ... those horrible abdominal pains that accompany four doughnuts and leftover spaghetti.

I'm sitting in traffic and I get a little feeling I might have to go poopy.

No problem.

I'm a man.

I can hold my poopy.

Five minutes later I've moved roughly six inches.

And now, the doughnuts and the spaghetti are starting to fight in my tum-tum.

And the spaghetti is saying "You win, doughnuts! You win! We'll just get out of here real quickly and you can stay here in the stomach!"

Except ... you know ... I'm not really in a position to let the spaghetti go just yet.

And the spaghetti is REAAAAALLY wanting to come out.

NOW.

So with my right foot on the brake, my left foot is trying to push itself through the floor board as I try to convince my bowels that they can be held for another fifteen minutes.

And the sweat starts to bead on my forehead.

Then, with the good Lord shining down on me, the traffic begins to move and I'm fortunate enough to make it to the interstate where the traffic will be flowing smoothly.

Just like ... ummmm ... you know.

So I'm doing like 85 mph down the interstate PRAYING that a cop doesn't stop me because even though you and I may think "Officer ... I'm about to shit myself silly ... please let me go and send me a ticket or whatever you fucking have to do but if you don't let me keep going I'M GOING TO FUCKING EXPLODE HERE!", cops aren't usually prone to say "Sure pal ... keep breaking the speed limit."

Luckily ... no cops.

Wonderful.

Once again, thank you God.

I get to my exit and I'm repeating my mantra "Five more miles ... five more minutes ... five more miles ... five more minutes..."

The first two stop lights are green.

Me and God ... we seem to be tight today.

The third and final stoplight is turning yellow just as I get it in my sight.

Meanwhile, my bowels are SCREAMING.

Literally. They are roaring. I can hear them over the radio.

I slow down for the stop light and I'm repeating "20 seconds it'll be green. 20 seconds it'll be green."

(I do not countdown the time because that's just giving my bowels false hope.)

And ... okay.

I KNOW this light should only take like 15 seconds to turn green.

I go through this light 2-4 times a day.

I'm waiting.

And I'm waiting.

And I wait a little more.

Finally ... in what seemed an eternity, the light turns green.

My right foot slams on the gas.

My left foot slams on the floorboard.

I'm now two miles and two minutes from home.

I pull into the subdivision.

The "Speed Limit 25" sign is totally ignored as I look down and I'm doing 50 mph through the subdivision.

I get to my street.

I turn left.

I get all the way to the end of the street and I'm probably doing 30 mph as I pull into my driveway.

I hit the driveway.

And ... then ... it ... explodes.

And there's no stopping it.

Now ... between you and me ... I don't know if you've ever shit yourself like a mental patient.

Honestly, we're just talking about me here. I'm sure you may have a story to tell and that's just wonderful.

But I have never ... NEVER experienced anything like this.

As my bowels opened wide and warm liquid shit began crawling up the small of my back, I swung right and the car landed right in front of the garage, just inches from the door as it was raising up.

While it probably wasn't necessary or even imperative to the situation, the only thing going through my head was "How the hell do I get out of the car like this?"

I had a crippling fear that my neighbor may be in the back yard playing with her child.

I was wearing light khakis.

I checked my rear view mirror and didn't see the neighbor.

Thank God. If she had been outside it would have been "What are YOU doing home so early today?" followed by a ten minute conversation because even though she's a sweetheart, she's the only stay-at-home Mom on the block and she's got to be desperate for some adult conversation at noon thirty in the day.

I make the wise decision to just get out of the car and waddle to the nearest bathroom. I'm home now. I can shower now. I can wash clothes now.

It's O-KAY.

Still ... once you have shit about a gallon of barely digested leftover spaghetti into your boxers, you're doing your goddamndest to walk as properly as possible while trying not to conjure up a mental image of what your backside must look like.

I got inside, got to the bathroom, carefully removed my pants as quickly as possible and was glad to see that they weren't nearly as soaked in shit as I expected them to be.

The boxers?

Oh man.

Different story altogether.

Once my bowels calmed down and signed a truce with the rest of my body, I went outside naked and hosed down my clothes.

And ass.

(It's okay ... we have a privacy fence. I'm not getting arrested for shit-covered public nudity.)

And ... I'm guessing that unless you're in Australia or New Zealand or Hawaii ... it was pretty fucking cold where you lived today.

Try standing naked in your yard in mid-March shooting ice cold water on your back and ass.

You don't fucking KNOW "cold", Missy until you're cleaning shit off you under those circumstances.

I came back inside, dripping wet when I realized that ... hey ... it may have been more convenient if I had ... oh, I dunno ... grabbed a towel to dry off with and left it at the back door?

I've got to admit ... the hose didn't get me "squeaky clean".

My God.

That water was fucking COLD.

My little Bobby crawled inside my groin to try and stay warm from the sharp temperature change and swore he wasn't coming out until summer after that torture.

I waddled to the shower.

You remember my shower? The nice marble shower built for two that I used to brag about five years ago when we built the house??

Yeah, that one.

Gotta tell ya ... when I used to brag about my fucking marble shower ... I never thought I'd see a puddle o' shit at the bottom of it.

I took a quick shower, scrubbing my ass with Susie's loofah.

(Should I tell her I did that? Or just giggle every time I see her using it on her face?)

I then bleached the bottom of the shower with Clorox.

Washed my clothes.

TWICE.

WITH EXTRA RINSE CYCLE.

Then I set about cleaning the house.

I guess this is one of those stories that I'll be able to laugh about someday.

But not today.

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