Crap Chronicles: When IBS Strikes in all the Wrong Places Page 3
Early one spring morning, my son Ron arrived at the White Rock Marathon in Dallas, Texas, prepared to finish his first twenty-six-mile run. To fuel himself, he’d eaten nothing beforehand except a single glazed donut. This, no doubt, will appear reasonable only to those who know his daytime profession: He’s a cop.
Ron noted the various rest stops at each mile marker. Tables filled with cookies, bananas, Gatorade, and, yes, more donuts, offered choices for additional energy. He partook of the free goodies as he jogged, feeling vigorous and making good time.
At Mile Six, Ron detected a strange stench. It smelled like someone had “shart” (a fart that ends with a surprise deposit) his shorts. Right then, a middle-age guy sprinted past—trailing fumes.
When the runner’s backside came into view, Ron saw his nose hadn’t misled him. The guy had indeed expelled something noxious. Physical proof remained on the back of the hapless man’s legs.
Ron critically eyed the jogger who’d crapped himself. What an idiot this guy had to have been, he marveled. How hard is it to know the difference between an “air biscuit” and diarrhea?
The aromatic athlete raced ahead, causing a sea of runners to part for him as if he were Moses.
As the race progressed past the banks of White Rock Lake, the course veered and snaked through an exclusive neighborhood of historic homes, swank, “old money,” Southern-style residences, not exactly the kinds of houses you’d seek out for an emergency bathroom break. Nonetheless, that was where Ron suffered his first bout of “bubble gut.”
Feeling his internal pressure building, Ron knew it wouldn’t be long before he suffered a sonic eruption. Jogging slower, he surveyed his options. Which homes had the thickest shrubbery?
Never one to do his number in a toilet beyond the bounds of his own house, he couldn’t imagine leaving sewer sauce in a yard that had been featured in “Parade of Homes.”
Ron concentrated hard on sphincter control. He drew in his butt and squeezed so tight that, to borrow his words, “a sledgehammer couldn’t have driven a sixteen-penny nail up [his] ass.” This reduced his pace to a crawl, though he mentally resolved to keep moving.
Up ahead, on the horizon, he spotted a bank of blue structures. PUL-EEZE let those be portable toilets, Ron prayed. Tucking under his hips, he tensed his glutes harder. Only a few more blocks to go.
But once there, the scene at the portable restrooms reminded Ron that he was not the fastest of runners. Thousands of others had arrived before him, many failing to reach the desperation stop in time.
Opening the first portable toilet door, Ron jumped to one side to dodge the reeking odor. Thank goodness, dozens more unoccupied units remained available.
He moved to the adjacent Porta-Potty. But the second toilet had been left in even worse condition. From all appearances, an elephant had backed up to it and just let mud fly.
Surely the next one would be better.
Cleanliness aside, the third john had to suffice because he could wait no longer. He tugged open the restroom door and leapt inside. And that’s when he discovered the sad truth: There’d been more than one elephant.
The toilet seat looked like it had been blasted with a spray of chocolate and peanut butter pumped from the bowels of a circus beast. He’d stumbled onto a scene from Horton Takes a Poo (not a real film, but it could be if the right producer reads this).
Ron checked the toilet paper holder. Not enough tissue there to wipe a toddler’s behind. He’d have to do the “hygienic hover.” Like the pachyderms before him, he’d simply have to back up and blow sludge.
At least, that’s what his brain told him.
His legs, however, received a different message.
As he bent his knees to do the deed, his thighs buckled without warning. Fatigued from twenty-two miles of jogging, Ron’s quadriceps decided to let go too. Before he could catch himself, he fell firmly onto the slimy seat.
There was nothing left for him to do but cut loose.
Sitting there, relieving himself of all but his revulsion, Ron listened as in the distance a time check volunteer called out other racers’ accomplishments.
“FOUR HOURS, TEN MINUTES!”
Clomp, clomp, clomp, clomp, clomp...
“FOUR HOURS, ELEVEN MINUTES!”
Clomp, clomp, clomp, clomp...
Stuck in someone else’s poop while finishing his own, he agonized over his lost time and body functions.
“FOUR HOURS, FIFTEEN MINUTES!”
Clomp, clomp, clomp, clomp...
“FOUR HOURS, TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES!’”
Clomp, clomp, clomp, clomp...
By now, most of the other runners had passed him. Yet this wasn’t Ron’s most humiliating recognition.
Exiting the portable toilet, he smelled like a stockyard and looked as if he’d wallowed in fresh manure. He and the runner who’d repulsed him at Mile Six were now toxic twins. Adding further insult to his misery, his dookie-double finished the race a half hour ahead of him.
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