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This article is believed to be public property as no copyright is expressed and the original authors are unknown. To the best of my knowledge it is being freely distributed via the Internet. I wish to give full credit to those who created it, whomever they may be.
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This my story and I’m sticking to it
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Last December my family and I drove to Orlando for a weeklong vacation. The first day, we split up and headed to our respective theme parks/places of interest. My uncle and I decided to go to the Kennedy Space Center in nearby Cape Canaveral. At around 7 AM, after I took a shower and a particularly large and satisfying shit, we left the condo and began our journey. Since neither of us had eaten, we stopped at a gas station and got some snacks. My snack consisted of a large black coffee, a bag of beef jerky, and a cheese Danish of questionable age.
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We pulled into the Space Center parking lot just as I polished off the last of the jerky. We bought our tickets, put film in our cameras, and began our look around. Around mid-afternoon, I began to feel a slight pressure in my lower gut. Convinced that my morning dump had cleaned me out thoroughly, I chalked it up to gas, or possibly a lone turdlet that was somehow denied its freedom. I ignored it, and onward we went. After a lot of walking and picture taking, my uncle and I both conceded that we were damn tired, and headed back to our suite.
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During the drive back my innards, cramping terribly, began to perform The Brown Concerto. As a classical music fan, I could tell this song was in the key of BM Major, and its final movement was fast approaching. I released a few boiling-hot farts, and suddenly the van smelled like a walk-in humidor filled with sun-ripened corpses and boiled eggs. Discharging this foul gas brought immediate relief, however, and caused the cramps to cease completely. By the time we got back to our suite, my gut was seemingly back to normal, so instead of heading straight to the toilet, I collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.
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A few hours later I woke up and fixed myself a small dinner, the previous happenings in my stomach long forgotten. Having nothing to do, and with nothing to watch on TV, my uncle and I grew bored and decided to go driving around the city. We were right by Epcot Center when I felt a huge fart coming on. I announced its arrival: "Uh-oh -- this one’s gonna reek!" I proudly grunted as I raised a cheek and let 'er rip.
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Uh-oh, indeed … almost as soon as the fart came to fruition, I could tell that disaster had struck. I felt warm liquid shit seep out of my tightly clenched butt-cheeks and spread all over my man-crack. As the gravity of my situation sank in, I loudly exclaimed, "Oh shit! I shit myself!" My uncle looked at me with an expression of horror, and then began to laugh uncontrollably. He laughed for quite a while as we hastily made our way back to the suite.
Throughout the drive back, I balanced precariously on my hands and feet in a crab-like posture, so as to keep my oozing butt up in the air. Since the minivan was rented, I was trying my damnedest to prevent the passenger seat from being soiled with my rank ass-juice. After a while, my muscles began to tire and I knew that I was gonna have to sit down soon. Fortunately, I had the foresight to quickly grab a plastic grocery bag from the floor and put it on the seat seconds before I collapsed.
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The feeling was heinous. All of the poop that had collected in my jockeys was suddenly forced fore and aft of my slimy crevice. I cringed as it oozed up my crack, making its way almost to my lower back. The worst feeling, however, was the liquid-shit that now covered my ballsack, my scrotum, up until this point an innocent bystander content to observe the carnage from his nearby perch, was now absolutely inundated with dookie.
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I wallowed in my filth for a few endless miles until we finally pulled into the condo complex. I don't think the car was even completely stopped before I opened the door and took off. Not wanting to wait for the elevator and risk being seen or smelled, I ran and waddled up 3-flights of stairs like an all-pro running back with a groin injury. After fumbling a bit with the key, I opened the door and headed right for the throne room. I quickly stripped naked, and as I dropped my jeans and my drawers, a puddle of the yellowiest, most foul-smelling diarrhea I have ever seen greeted me. It was like my asshole tried to bake me a pineapple upside-down cake, but forgot to turn on the oven.
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Needless to say, my undies were trashed. I threw them in the wastebasket and tied the bag tightly. I turned on the shower and climbed in to give myself a much-needed cleaning, using up the whole bar of complimentary soap on my filthy, reeking ass and groin. Slowly but surely I soaped and lathered my crotch, asshole, and buttocks to their former state of pristine cleanliness.
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As I dried off, relieved that my ordeal was over, I laughed quietly to myself about what had happened. But as I stood there buffing my crevice with the towel, a wave of cramps took me by surprise, and I doubled over in agony. Quickly I made my way to the toilet, and as soon as I sat down my pucker spewed out yet another helping of searing-hot yellow shit. I figured that the rest of it just needed to come out, and as I wiped off my semi-sore starfish, I felt completely confident that my woes were coming to an end. However, sitting on the couch a few minutes later, I was overwhelmed yet again by deadly, painful contractions.
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I dutifully ran to the shitter and repeated the aforementioned purging process, trying to convince myself that I had the situation under control. But after five more of these trips in roughly a 30-minute time span, my poor sphincter was throwing in the towel, slapping the canvas, and begging for mercy. I felt like I'd been repeatedly sodomized with a turpentine-soaked pinecone. Limping each time to the bathroom, I was Rocky Balboa preparing for another round with an invincible and disgusting opponent. But while my corporeal self submitted to the anal agony of each shitting session, my spirit remained strong. I returned again and again to the toilet, trying in vain to delay the inevitable torrent of shit that would pour forth and scorch my irritated sphincter. It got to the point where I couldn't even wipe anymore -- in one instance, I remember splashing water on my asshole to clean it, but stopping immediately because it felt like hot acid. If I had squatted down and put a mirror to my nether-regions, I am sure my bunghole would have been bubbling and sizzling like bacon in a frying pan.
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In total, I must have made around 12-trips to the bathroom until someone (my mom or my aunt) brought me some Imodium. I returned to the toilet for 2-more agonizing shits before the larger-than-normal dosage kicked in. For the rest of the evening, and most of the next day, I was forced to walk slowly and slightly bowlegged as my poor asshole began the long and painful road to recovery.
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For the rest of the trip my bowel movements were solid, although I cautiously avoided squeezing out any more farts unless I was within the privacy of my suite.
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The end…
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