This is Part 2 of the story, Part 1 was posted afterwards (so it will appear first) for the benefit of those who have continued to read my blog. Skip ahead and read backwards if you want the full story.
**Warning this post is going to dabble in the dirty, if you are easily offended by toilet humor then you should read no further**
Normally I would never post something like this but given that I have nearly made some of my friends pee their pants with laughter, I thought I had to share this.
After the race was finished the light rain has stopped, endorphins has just painted my brain a certain shade of happy and the adrenaline levels in my bloodstream began to fall. Life seemed great until the adrenaline levels hit a certain low. This chemical low now meant that my bodies warning signs were no longer ignorable. Suddenly my body remembered just how poorly I have been treating it; drinking lots of beer the night before (birthday ‘casual drinks’ had turned rampant), fighting a sickness that has struck down many of my friends and less than four hours of sleep had caught up with me.
Suddenly I realized that what I thought was the ‘beer farts’ was in fact not the loving scolding of my body but the distant warning of an eruption. Known that my friends and I were 20 minutes away from the athletic complex, from which we had just left, and at least another 20 minutes away from my friend’s apartment my body began to panic.
This crap was days in the making and would not be denied.
The standard defensive mechanisms were not working (such as shortening the stride so more energy can be focused on the tightening the butt). Mild discomfort arising from the bodies fight to keep the turd inside, often expressed ‘prairie doggin’ ‘gophering’ or ‘turtle heading’, gave way to the feeling that I had to go to the bathroom now or I would in fact crap my pants in front of my friends.
My one friend had previously told us that they knew this area well as they often jogged along this route. Through gritted teeth, I asked if there was a washroom around. I was told that there were public toilets in the nearby public gardens. I told my friends I had to go and off I shot like a man with his ass on fire. The tree-lined path we were following gave way to an opening with a center building and two possible pathways to take. I circled the building like a shark only to find its purpose was not to give me relief but to inform me about how old a nearby bridge was. As optimism turned to anger I envisioned myself crapping on the bridge but I remembered it was daylight, it was a public area and there would be nothing to wipe with on a wooden bridge. The building did not even tell me which path would take me to the public toilets.
As I cursed the bridge and it’s associated building I was given an ultimatum by my ass-sphincter: find a place now or forever be ashamed. My eyes darted, searching out a private area that would also yield foliage for wiping. I found an appropriate location and scurried over. Dropping my sweat pants, I leaned ass-first against a tree and did my business. As I violated that tree two thoughts came to mind. The first was a realization that I was now looking up onto a public street with offered me to the view of houses, cars and pedestrians. In an attempt to escape the view from park visitors, I had jumped out of the pan and into the fire. I sheepishly pulled my sweatshirt hood over my head still unable to make my escape.
The second thought was concerning my aim; I was so disgusted with myself that I had not bothered to look down. Slowly my hands crept south and began to feel my pants. Panic filled me as I felt a bulge. My legs were positioned so my lowered sweat pants formed a perfect cup and I just might have filled it to the brim. My eyes darted down only to see that my warm and sweaty basketball shorts had bunched, nothing more. At that moment, I wanted to scream “YES! I did not crap myself!” Then I thought to my present situation. I was a foreigner that had their pants down and had just finished crapping in a public park while within sight of a public street. Quickly my hands grabbed some of the rare patches of foliage I saw and began the clean up process.
Thank god for this bush I thought to myself. In between wipes, I thought of how little I knew of plants in Scotland.
* Wipe * I sure hope this isn’t the Scottish version of poison ivy.
* Wipe * Man these leaves are small; maybe I should use a bunch to speed things up.
It was seconds after that thought had been put into action and I reached for another bunch of leaves only to find that my fingers had grabbed a thorn. Then it hit me. The only plant that had fresh foliage at this time of year was a prickly bush and the only dumb-ass animal in the entire kingdom to wipe their ass with it was me.
I finished up and began my sheepish walk to where my friend would soon be. It was at that point the second adrenaline low would hit me (apparently taking a dump in public causes a spike in the stuff). This time the absence of that chemical would emerge as a painful burning sensation as the extent of the thorn/ass intermingling came to a realization.
That night, before my muscles thought to complain, the most painful part of me was my ass. I would sit down and upon rising; I would fix my boxers only to find that several small scabs had formed fusing my boxers to my ass. I would only find that this was no ordinary ‘wedgie’ after I attempt to readjust thereby opening the thorn wounds. On and on this vicious cycle went.
In hindsight, one of the funniest realizations about this whole story is that I did something, publicly, that I am very proud of followed almost instantaneously by something, privately, that causes tremendous shame. I knew I used a pen