My bowels have a mind of their own. There really isn’t a whole lotta gray area, it’s basically “Yes, I need a toilet immediately”, or “No, I’m empty”. So, when I gotta go; I really gotta go.

My dude Tim will attest that I have shat in the worst places imaginable, and of course at the most inopportune times. I shat in titty clubs, gas stations, porta-potties, malls, the side of the road (read related story)…anywhere.

I’m that guy who shits at someone else’s house. No shame in my game; just necessity.

Shit, I even took a crap at this hot chick’s place on a first date. I sprayed her bowl like a dirty bum. But that’s another story.

I could never control it. I asked doctors, and they told me that I have an active system when in public. It’s like some type of agoraphobia where I poop. I’ve always wanted to beat this thing. Control the fear, but it would seem a losing proposition. Never the less, I never say “die” and The Spirit of ’76 runs this boy.

Whatever the case may be, you can choose to believe or disbelieve the true story which is about to unfold.

Last night, I was hanging out with some friends at watering hole downtown when I started to feel the pressure build. The first wave was ever so slight. Just like a gentle pinch from a passer-by.

I paid little to no attention to it. I was yakking it up with the good people of St. Pete. I was living well. I was in control.

Again, I felt something as I ogled The Shortest Skirt of the evening. This was more of tremor which ran up my through my Gulliver and back down my back side. Not to fear. This was more trickery my mind was playing on me; insignificant bullying from a brutish ape like psychology. Let him beat his chest which I will dismiss with a slight release of gas.

The evening proceeds. I feel fine. “How about some eggs?” someone suggests. I oughta knee that guy in the balls. Who the hell needs a greasy egg at 1am? “Sounds like heaven to me!” I shouted and laughed wildly. The gang laughed along with me drunk with beer and whisky.

We walked down to Stubby’s Egg Shack. Stubby was flipping burgers and beef on the same grill which he cracked tyrannosaurus size eggs at. His arms were wet with sweat and his once white shirt was brown with stink. “What up Stubby?”

I shouted as we pored into the semi circular booth. Stubby raised his left hand holding his steel spatula as he pulled the chewed cigar butt from his lips. It trailed a string of spit which settled on his protruding belly. He mumbled some salutation, which I had never understood. Being an ex con and all, I don’t like to ask Stubby to repeat himself.

I ordered the “Buddy Weiser.” All of Stubby’s meals were named after his favorite beers and I don’t think he ever had a beer he didn’t like. Stubby once told us that he tried to make beer in the joint. The contents were fermented in the toilet for over a month, but I digress.

The “Buddy” as it was affectionately known as, consists of 3 eggs the size of your head (each), browns (fried with real butter and God or Stubby know what else), turkey sausage (I gotta watch my cholesterol) and some whole wheat toast (slathered with butter).

The pools of grease reflected the florescent lights. The aroma was like sex. The meal was like heroin.

I then realized that the shortest skirt of the night was sitting next to me making small talk about music. The segue was too perfect. “I have a CD collection that would knock your socks off” I blurted out, as I fished in my pocket for the ten spot that would cover me and the skirt and a nice tip for Stubby.

She took the toothpick from my mouth and engaging my eyes the whole time. “Is that right? Well it just so happens that I’d really like to have my socks knocked off “ she whispered.

I quickly excused us from the crowd as we rushed towards my car. As I shut her door and walked towards my side I got hit with contraction. My entire body was jolted forward throwing my body on the hood of the car. I squeezed my sphincter slid off the hood. It passed and I was relieved. I got in the car and joked about being too excited to walk. She giggled, while I calculated the magnitude of the movement. My prognosis; this ain’t good.

Not to worry. Just maintain. I was 6 minutes from my house, 6.2 minutes from taking a killer dump and 18 minutes away from laying down a serious piece of ass. I can do this. I will do this.

We were turning the corner when she spotted the 24hr 7-11 on my street. “Oh DB, can we stop for a slushy? I’m so thirsty and I need some condoms.”

This could possibly be the greatest request I have ever been asked. I don’t mean granting the request and holding my dump, but the actual request by a hot chick that I was partying with to stop for a slushy and condoms blew my mind. I finally made it in life. I didn’t need money or power to be a success in life, but the hot broad letting me know that she wanted me to sink her pink filled me with joy.

“That’s cool baby.” is all I to said and we parked in front of the doors.

“It was all mind over matter. If you don’t mind it don’t matter.” I kept saying over and over to myself as we walked in the store.

I acknowledged Benjamin behind the counter as she took a pull from the slushy machine. He nodded back. “If only that bastard would let me use his private dumper.” I thought.

Benjamin was one of these “one ass per toilet” douche bags who never shat anywhere but at one special toilet that no one else could use. My nemesis. He was on the other end of my spectrum.

And now the pressure was building. We walked towards the counter. My legs were stiff like boards to support the sphincter muscles. Unfortunately, the slowest pedestrian ever happened to be in front of us heading toward the counter with a shopping cart.

My mind reeled. “Hold the fuck on…” I thought. “What the fuck is a 90 year old lady doing at 7-11 with a shopping cart? This is madness.”

Someone was fucking with me, but who? Was my doodie in cahoots with the outside world to work against me? Impossible. Just nonsense.

“KNOCK, KNOCK” on my back door. There was no denying this beast. He wanted out.

“She reminds me of my Grandmother. Isn’t she sweet?” the shortest skirt asked.

The old woman smiled at me as she placed her items on the counter. It was smirk. She knew.

“Sweet like a fox” I replied, reaching into her mysterious cart placing paper towels and canned meat on Benjamin’s counter.

The monster crescendo continued to build as Benjamin placed this cunning witch’s products in a brown bag. What really hurt was seeing her pull out her checkbook. “Holy Christ, this is a sick joke. It’s 2005, who the fuck uses check books and carts at 7-11 at 2am?...Sweet Jesus, I’m going to shit in my pants!” I murmured like a mental patient,

The old lady said something polite as The Shortest Skirt smiled with pride as heard myself offer to help take her bags out to her car. I couldn’t make quite make out what she was saying. My head was filled with thoughts of torment.

I just grabbed her bags and started out the door. I assumed she followed. I waited as she led me to car full of what looked like Jesus miniature statues. I can’t be sure. I think I was hallucinating by then.

Either way, I missed the exchange between Benjamin and The Shortest Skirt, which must have been some scene when she asked for those rubbers. We met at my car. I was sweating. She was proud. I was getting laid for sure…provided that I don’t gross her out by shitting my pants in the next 4 minutes.

Hold on. Just hold on 4 minutes son.

As we got closer the knocking got louder. “KNOCK, KOCK, KNOCK”. The monster was pounding now.

And now the police were following me. Was this another hallucination? No way to tell without looking like a complete maniac in front of this poor girl. Just maintain that 25 mph and stay focused son.

We pulled in my drive and I felt something that I can’t quite explain. The starfish was being forced open; pried open from the inside. It was gas but impregnated with some mixture deadly load.

I wish I could tell you t hat this story was one of triumph. I wish I could tell you that this story was about the human will overcoming any obstacle. But I’m here to tell you, things just got messy.

That last blow from the doodie had been strong enough to incur some damages of serious proportion. Folks, there was more than gas in my drawers.

I had made a dirty squirt which was the least of my worries. I was ready to burst.

We walked toward my front door. I mustered all my strength and focus and to make it these last few paces.

I don’t think I see my goddamn neighbors but every 3 weeks. Now that I’ve got to take the shit of my life, they’re sitting outside on their porch swing drunk and asking me about stray cats.

“Hey Fuckers, I gotta shit! I don’t care about cats in blenders at this point.” I thought, but managed to say “Yeah, this cat thing is crazy. Listen I gotta turn off the alarm. I’ll be out in a minute”

I left The Shortest Skirt in the clutches of conversation with the neighbors as I crashed through my door in wet pain.

I cant really tell you about all the horrible details that followed the next 10 minutes of the story, but I can say the 3 hours that followed those dirty 10 minutes are some of the best hours of my life.