It was back in Spring of 2008 when I experienced *The Event"…
On weekdays, I was on a very restrictive diet - oxygen smeared on a celery stick could have been construed as cheating - as well as a very demanding fat-loss program. My energy levels were roughly the same as a tree lemur on valium, and feces was a rare visitor to my toilet bowl. After 3 or 4 days, the combusted remnants of my meager diet would finally exit my GI tract (probably out of sheer boredom), but the accumulated mass was roughly the size of one of those midget corn cobs you see at Chinese restaurants - only a lot more shriveled.
Things were different on weekends, but that particular weekend was to be much, much different. My thought patterns at the time are a bit cloudy, but I somehow convinced myself that I was depleted of glycogen - dangerously so - and that the only recourse would be to devour upwards of 15,000 calories - primarily in the forms of pizza, pasta, cookies, and Ben & Jerry’s. I also purchased an entire child’s birthday cake. The kindly Japanese baker asked me what name I’d like written on it. “Gunner”, I replied.
Within about two hours of staggering slices of pizza and various deserts, it was clear that I had made a colossal error in judgment, but also that I had reached the point of no return. A couple hours more and I was done. I literally finished every last morsel of what I purchased, and I passed out on the tatami floor, hovering on the brink of what was no doubt a diabetic coma.
Fast forward to about 9pm that night. A sense of severe fecal urgency woke me from my gluttonous stupor, and I sprinted over to the tiny toilet room in my apartment, which any visitor to Japanese can attest is not much bigger than a refrigerator box. As no stranger to a Chinese buffet, I had taken monumental dumps before. This…this was to be different.
I can’t properly quantify or qualify the fecal scourge which erupted from my asshole. One would have to invent a new unit of measurement to quantify it, and maybe one of our more science-minded members could, but if you were to somehow combine cubic foot, kiloton and decibel into one unit, you might be getting close. In terms of appearance, If you were to somehow precipitate the combined, lifetime utterings of every cast member of “Jersey Shore” into a tar-like sludge, and dump it into a Scottish bog to stew and fester for 500 years, it wouldn’t be half as vile as what was expunged from my rectum that night.
After the initial, crushing waves of that fecal tsunami had blasted against the fine porcelain of my toilet, I spent a solid two minutes spraying out semi-frequent blasts of sludge, as well as pondering the mistakes I had made thus far in my life. I felt relieved…but not really.
I soon figured out why. Unbeknownst to me, there were several rock-hard shit nuggets loitering around my intestines - likely remnants of my weekdays of near starvation. They were waiting for an excuse to come out, and the fact that my colon had decreased in size by 80% seemed excuse enough. This is the stage I coined “The Bombardment”.
Lubricated by liquid shit and propelled by involuntary rectal spasms, several large nuggets of hardened shit shot out at near supersonic speeds, plummeting into the vile soup I had produced just minutes before. I pictured that scene from “Band of Brothers” where the allies are in the frozen woods trying to withstand an artillery barrage - but this was much worse. Spatters, spurts, globs and gloops of filth were propelled all over my ass cheeks. My balls were dripping in my own shit. It was not my finest hour.
Toilet paper was not going to suffice here, so I stumbled over to the shower room, leaving an evenly-spaced trail of shit droplets on the floor. I rinsed myself off and sat on the shower floor for a good 5 minutes, hugging my knees and letting the hot mist envelop the bathroom. I needed some time for quiet reflection.
Shortly thereafter, I went to assess what I had done. The “Platoon” music where Charlie Sheen surveys the Vietnamese village that had been raped and pillaged started playing in my head. There was nary a square inch of porcelain to be seen. I flushed, but some remained. I flushed again, but smudges were still there. A final flush took care of the mess to my satisfaction.
That was the most memorable shit I have ever taken.
