I went home over the weekend to see my parents. Saturday night we had dinner with the family at my uncle’s. I don’t know what it is with these family dinners, but I always end up with indigestion and diarrhea. Sometimes the dinners are potluck, other times it’s just one person cooking for everyone. No matter what the situation, 30 minutes after I finish eating I have painful bloating that results in explosive diarrhea.

I really wish I had worn sweatpants that night. I felt my belly expanding, so I excused myself to the bathroom. Thank God for my little niece.. the noise level in the dining area was loud enough with her screaming that I didn’t need to soften the foghorn, and my ass blew like a sputtering engine. I tried to push out anything my colon could release, but it was only gas. That brought temporary relief, but the second wave would soon hit, and I knew excusing myself to the bathroom again would throw a red flag and my ass would be outed. Instead I made up some excuse that I needed to go home early. My grandparents wanted to leave at the same time, so I escorted them to their car. Too bad my grandparents walk like grandparents. It was the longest most painful walk of my life. I had 20 bowel movements hit and twist my intestines. My posture started to slump and I began to walk with a limp. At this point my grandparents were moving faster than I was. I finally get them to their car and my grandfather decides this is a good time to ask when he’ll get some grandchildren out of me. My usual answer is, “I don’t know maybe some day soon, Grandpa,” and he repeats his longwinded lecture about how I need to pop out kids asap before he croaks. But this time I tell him, “This year!!” I don’t wait to see his reaction, I assume it was a pleasant smile; I just run to my car and hightail it out of there.

I am a really safe driver, but that night I broke a few traffic laws. The 15 minute drive took 8 minutes. My parents’ house has a steep driveway, and parking in the garage requires a slow and calculated three point turn. By this time my cheeks were starting to part and I was losing the battle of not pooping my pants. I didn’t have time to do a three point turn. When your butt is about to explode and you don’t want to explain to your parents why you took a giant shit in their car, precision driving skills somehow magically materialize and you manage to park the car in the garage with just one quick sharp turn without damaging any property.

I don’t remember closing the car door, the garage door, or even opening the house door, but I do remember throwing everything on the floor and running to the closest toilet (sorry, Mom), fumbling with my pants button (why didn’t I wear sweatpants??!) and the huge relief I felt when I released my cheeks and let it all torpedo out. I didn’t even have time to turn on the light. I was on the toilet in the dark with diarrhea. When it was all out of me, I dabbed my bunghole and shuffled to reach the light switch. The lights came on, and I saw the shit was everywhere. It blew out hard. It was on the seat, it was on the toilet lid, it was on the counter, it was on the shower curtain, and it was on my shirt. It was disgusting, but I felt like a man. I just took a major man-shit, and it felt good.

I wiped everything down, checked to make sure the car and house doors were shut and locked, took my third wave shit (not so violent this time), took a shower, and crawled into bed like a champ.