Beads of Sweat Part 2

One minute left. What was this blanket of orange cones that covered the road ahead? I hoped beyond hope it wasn’t what I though it was! Damnit it was. Construction! Looks like they had torn the pavement off and left gaping potholes to give the road personality. There was a good chance that any one of these potholes would jostle my bowels which would induce full on spastic blow out mode. Dang those S.O.B’s!! I’d smack their mother if she were here. Well not hit her but definitely put her in 8 head locks. Anyway…

My distended bowels felt way beyond their bursting point. It’s a good thing they are on the inside otherwise I would be embarrassed from the residual stretch marks created from this embarrassing ordeal. Any atheist in my position would become a believer in God because only He knows how I hadn’t filled my pants and driver’s seat with crap yet. Physics cannot explain what my sphincter and body were able to withstand. We don’t have instruments that can measure the amount of pressure that was being exerted on my buttocks. If we did, the SI measurement for the extreme pressure would be “ea” for E’s ass; “psi” would be relegated to measuring things of lesser pressure.

Why have we as a society moved from once wearers of diapers to “civilized” people that can only crap in designated areas. If I had a diaper on, I would have grouted my butt crack with fecal matter like a mason, sans trowel. Gross I know but these were the thoughts of a desperate, desperate man. I should have just filled my drawers when the compulsion arose rather than suffer this inhumane malady. The crap was exerting more force on my bum than any battering Clay Aiken’s bum has endured from the myriad of men that have taken their turn massacring it.

My car jerked from a discourteous pothole that could serve as proof that black holes exist on earth and not just in space. It seemed to suck my whole car in then, like all women, fickly changed its mind and rudely ejected it. Yes, I know that black holes don't even let light escape let alone a car but just go with it. I thought I heard my butt hole rip as my car jarringly tried to right itself. False alarm. Must’ve been the undercarriage or something ripping off as my car emerged from another cavernous pothole unavoidably populating the road. Truth be told, if you were to inspect the potholes they would be no bigger than a small dirt divot. However, anything that caused my car to move even the slightest degree was intensely magnified by my ailing bowels and sphincter. Each second was as grueling as the combined pain of a 9 month pregnancy and subsequent birth.

I parked in my covered stall. How I was able to make it this far was beyond my meager intelligence. I was grateful to have survived this far but the hardest portion of this debacle was now upon me. I had to walk up 5 spaced steps, down a flight of steps then without incident negotiate a short distance to the evacuation receptacle, which we’ll call “blow out central.” It suddenly occurred to me while sitting in my car that my body’s weight had served to help keep my butt closed. I would be without that precious assistance as I traversed the distance to my bathroom. I didn’t have time to think about it. I sprung from my car like a cat pouncing on a juicy mouse or like my friend B on any girl with a pulse. Quite the whore this young man is. His genitals serve as a hang out for a wide variety of known and unknown STD’s. He has taken so many antibiotics that bacteria are now impervious to antibiotics. Thanks B! Douche bag. Anyway…

I gingerly conquered the steps, opened the door and then frantically scurried/duck-walked to what the news would later call a murder scene. I ripped my jeans off as though they were warm-ups. Before they and my bum hit the seat my sphincter gave out. The song Hallelujah blared in my mind as my bowels unceremoniously emptied their contents and what seemed like all of my insides. I should have gotten an anal episiotomy before I slammed my cheeks on the porcelain because I’m pretty sure I ripped something as my butt turned me inside out. The sweet release felt better than 20 orgasms. I could’ve used a cigarette as I sat on the toilet wondering how I managed to avoid cleaning the filth that was taking up space in my toilet bowl from off my leather seats. I decided there was no way to explain a miracle. All I know is that I put that toilet into therapy.