A few days ago I imparted the story of Hanni and Ryan’s Disgusting Thanksgiving Weekend, and just in case I hadn’t maxed-out your tolerance for anecdotes concerning poo, I thought I’d add a little epilogue to the story.As I mentioned Hanni’s younger sister Susanne mysteriously came down with the same fluid-spewing condition when she and her husband were on the way back from picking up a vehicle in the Lone Star State. Rumor has it the final leg of the trip, which normally takes 6 hours, took a staggering 12 hours to cross because of frequent rest stops. Although, not all of them were strictly at places designed for such stops, since there isn’t always a bathroom handy whenever your stomach has decided to attempt to escape via your windpipe. I hear tell that my fair, soon-to-be sister-in-law was forced to squat along the side of the road as liquefied fecal matter shotgunned out of her behind, presumably giving her husband’s truck a new and interesting paint job.
Susanne is not the most delicate of flowers, I should mention, and imagining the flood of expletives that must have come from her mouth (in between the vomit) is enough to make Beelzebub weep. It’s also very possible that she’s somewhat brain damaged.
Now, I like Susanne very much, and the fact that she thinks I’m funny doesn’t wear too badly on the old ego, but sometimes she does things that can only be explained as questionable decision making at best, and outright bat-shit lunacy at worst. This is the woman who once punctured her own hand, through both sides, with a kitchen knife because she was trying to remove an avocado seed and felt piercing it with a savage stabbing motion while holding it in her hand was the best method. That being said, I have a hard time imagining what I would have done differently in the following story:
On one of Susanne and her husband’s “rest stops” in their Johnny Poopleseed trek across the country, the two were lucky enough to have indoor plumbing in the form of a McDonald’s bathroom. Susanne was busy painting the interior of the bowl brown when she found herself in the direst of bathroom decisions. I think some of you are already ahead of me here. I speak, of course, of the decision whether to try to clamp off your ass and spin around, or just let fly because suddenly you have to puke. What follows is a reenactment of how I think the conversation went through the door of the bathroom between Susanne and her husband Stephen:Susanne: “Oh fuck! I have to puke!”
Stephen: “So puke.”
Susanne: “No, there’s still poop comin’ out, you son of a bitch!”
Stephen: “So?”
Susanne: “So if I turn to puke I’ll shit all over my fucking legs!”
Stephen: (No answer because he has gone to wait in the truck.)
The sound of cursing and vomit splattering commercial tile is heard by the patrons of McDonald’s, followed by a loud blast of diarrhea.
And Susanne did what I assume 96% of you out there would do in a situation where you have just totally raped a fast-food bathroom; she bolted like a gazelle being chased by lions. Oh, sorry, she did take the time to gently cover her puke with a thin layer of 1-ply toilet paper before sprinting for the parking lot. I have yet to understand why anyone thinks it’s less trouble for the dude making $4.25/hour to clean up vomit-soaked toilet paper falling apart all over the place than just plain puke, but that seems to be the prevailing opinion.
I think I might lay off the poo-posts for awhile.
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