>>> The Rollercoaster of Drama
By staff writer Simonne Cullen
November 28, 2004

With every great Thanksgiving Day meal comes the great After Dinner Poo. This poo is not like your other poos. This poo must always be dropped in some relative's house—in their pink, ceramic toilet adjacent to the pink guest soap cut into shapes of sea shells…for guests to listen to the sounds of toilet I assume. And call me a germophobe, but I put toilet paper down at my own relatives' homes. I know it's crazy, we're all from the same blood line, but it's already bad enough that the toilet seat doesn't need warming because Uncle Herb's ass cheeks have been settling down there for the past twenty minutes. I don't know what fungus has been gathering there for the ten minutes we had to wait while he lit a match. For one Thanksgiving I'd just like to be able to be grateful for having a place to shit without knowing there's a line forming outside the door.

We all have that one story where we experienced number two coming at the most inconvenient time. A wedding, a Bar Mitzvah, prom, 11:59 on New Year's Eve. But just recently on a pre-Thanksgiving Day shopping trip I heard the ultimate Number Two Poo Story that makes my dad's food poisoning incident in the Caesar's Palace men's room look like poo in the park. This Number Two is not like any poo ever seen before. I wish that publishing companies had a high demand for children books with adult themes—if not for the story then strictly for the pictures. If they did I would call my first book: Rory & The Atomic Poo.

“Just as he leaned over to layer the floor, the encore poo began. Five minutes worth. More than some bands re-emerge for.”

It started out like any other day. Rory woke up. Took a shower. Put on his clothes. Went to his morning class. Then went to lunch. At lunch he had a delicious cheeseburger. So did all of his friends. Then Rory came back to play with his Xbox. That's when the first alert arrived. You know when you have to poo you always get one of two alerts. The normal alert is something of a bell, “Ding!” Which indicates that the poo is knocking on the anus's door waiting to jump in the blue pool. But then there's the second alert, which is more like a code red alarm going off in one of those poorly-made submarine war movies “URGENT URGENT URGENT!” But this alert was only a ding so Rory went poo, washed his hands, and thought, how odd I only do that at night. But he forgot about it and went about his day.

Half an hour later another ding arrived. So Rory went again, it was a little runny, which Rory thought was more than a little funny. He didn't know what was more disconcerting: that he had already gone poo twice in one day, or that they were both notable.

Rory putzed around 'til dinner when he ate French Onion soup that none of his other friends dared to touch, fearing that the black soup was actually watered down motor oil. Then they all went off to see a concert at the local Performing Arts Center. So up there on the forty-fourth floor, nosebleed level, sat Rory and his friends in a long row of people. They began to enjoy the show when all of a sudden Rory got the “Ding!” signal again. But this time Rory was indignant that his body was forcing him to poo three times in one day. So he told himself “Fuck you. I am going poo only when it's convenient for me.” And Rory's intestines retreated for the time being. Rory smiled at himself: Rory 1, Bowels 0. Bad life choice. Ten minutes into the first act he got the calling again. Only this time its now “URGENT URGENT URGENT!!” It had come back with a vengeance.

He knew that there was no holding it. He waited for some applause and climbed over an entire row of people who hate him, because before the show started he had them move their stuff for his number one. They weren't pleased to begin with and this next extended visit to the bathroom didn't exactly go over well either.

So they're looking at poor Rory like, “Why the hell can't you hold it in like everyone else??” But Rory didn't care. Rory had to go. Rory had to go NOW! Unfortunately, he's up on the fourth floor and the men's room is, of course, conveniently located on the first floor. He walked briskly walking down the corridor when all of a sudden he farted. This was no ordinary fart. This was the fart that serves as a signal for the shitting to commence when you're sitting on the can. You know, the fanfare fart that announces in no uncertain terms that the poo is forthcoming? The fart that cleanses the bunghole? Well, Rory got that while he was walking.

So Rory wan't hauling ass as fast as his flip-flops could take him. He burst through the men's room and into the stall, locked the door behind him, pulled down his pants, and put one piece of toilet paper on the seat…because Rory is a germophobe too. He had the other piece of toilet paper in his hand, bent over, about to put it on the other side of the ceramic death bowl when he heard PFFFFFOOOOOPPPPTTT. He turned around to observe that he had, in fact, shat all over the floor. But once Rory started pooping he could not stop. Poor Rory shat everywhere. Poo just kept shooting out of his tushy like that scene from American Pie. Only unlike Finch, Rory didn't get it all in the toilet, but on the stall walls and three piles on the floor.

At this point Rory was horrified but also very relieved. Ultimately, he just tried to wiggle his butt over the toilet seat so the poo would go in there, but it just wasn't stopping. Somewhere in the middle of all this Rory lost all bladder control and peed all over the stall. Seven minutes of pooing later, things finally calmed down. Rory stopping shatting uncontrollably and took a big wad of toilet paper to try to cover up the mess—all over the seat, mounds in the toilet, and at least three piles laying on the floor soaked in urine. But just as he leaned over to layer the floor, the encore poo began. Five more minutes worth. More than some bands re-emerge for.

Finally, the real cleanup began. And Rory was faced with a problem. He looked in the toilet and analyzed the situation. This wasn't your typical log poo. It was the goopy, brownie mix type. So not only was his butt crack full of pull, but he felt there was an even layer spread over his ass cheeks as well. Forty minutes and two and a half rolls of toilet paper later Rory realized that he might want to stop flushing the toilet, terrified that it would begin to clog and overflow. Leaving him right back at square one. He was about give up and walk out when everyone from the show came bustling in the bathroom. Rory's worst fears were confirmed. He had wiped throughout the first act.

Guys came in screaming things like, “Jesus what the hell died in here?! Does anyone have a match?!” Rory continued to clean and avoid slipping on the puddles, because Lord knows flip-flops aren't exactly the kind of cross trainers you want to wear in this situation. But he avoided it like a pro. Finally the lights dimmed again for the show to start back. Rory waited 'til everyone was gone, then walked away from the stall, the bathroom, the show, the building, and his friends…leaving more than his share behind. To this day, he still poos three times a day, but only out of fear.

So I write to you this Thanksgiving Day weekend in hopes that you can look back on a time where you had a poor poo experience, remember Little Rory, and be grateful that you passed on those pink meat chicken wings prior to Thanksgiving Day dinner. Unfortunately for me, once again this year, Uncle Herb did not.