October 07, 2006
If I'm Not Mistaken...
...this post claimed the "Crap Daddy Of Blogs" award.
A Crap Tale
I think it was the spring of 1977. I was playing guitar for a living and Recondo 32 was attending some kind of basket-weaving classes at the University of Georgia so that he could milk the GI Bill for all it was worth. He and his lovely wife Georgia came home to Savannah at the end of the Winter Quarter to visit with friends and family.
Recondo needed to return to Athens for his last final exam on a Tuesday, and he asked me to give him a ride. I had Monday off, I was still familiar with all the good watering-holes in Athens and I had nothing better to do, so I agreed. I planned to go on Monday, get drunk and spend the night in Athens. I could make it back home in time to play Tuesday night.
We piled into my 1974 Vega and headed off for adventure. The weather was warm, so I was dressed in a tee-shirt, running shoes and a pair of Bill Rodgers satin jogging shorts that resembled a loin cloth, the better to display my sexy, muscular legs.
The shorts had no pockets, so I stuck my wallet in the elastic waistband, in the back where my wallet rode safe and secure, just above my asscrack. I wore no underwear (this fact is important). We stopped for beer and gas somewhere along the way, at a convenience store that sold Polish sausages the size of donkey dicks.
Those sausages turned slowly on a rotating grill behind a glass window and smelled wonderful as they sizzled and sweated globs of grease. I was hungry, so I bought one. I ate that sucker in about three bites and washed it down with cold beer.
I must not have chewed that thing sufficiently to fully subdue it in my belly. A few miles down the road, that sausage began to percolate and mortify as it combined with beer and my digestive juices to produce some fascinating noises and a few farts of world-class quality. Recondo cursed mightily with his head out the window a few times. I was proud of myself.
Before we arrived in Athens, I stopped farting because I felt something other than gas attempting to escape my anus. I knew what it was. Past experience had taught me the signs of a Sneaking Turd, that wiley dungwad that poses as a fart and fools you into shitting your pants.
I wasn't falling for THAT trick again, so I clenched my asscheeks and held on grimly all the way to Athens. By the time we arrived at Recondo's place, I was growing desperate and my clench-muscles were beginning to fail. As soon as he unlocked the front door, I duck-waddled as quickly as I could to the bathroom to relieve my anxiety.
I heard a plop! as I half-masted my jogging shorts and besat the throne, but I didn't think anything about that noise. I was simply delighted that I had reached the pooper in the nick of time. A foul eruption of beer, Polish sausage and other semi-digested detritus spewed from my bowels. The stench was horrible, but the relief was exquisite. Oh man, that felt GOOD.
When I was finished, I turned to look in the toilet before I flushed. (Do YOU do that? Y'know... admire your stool, check for worms or just make sure that you didn't blow your asshole off after a most excellent crap expulsion?) I'm glad I did, too, because I suddenly realized what made that plop! when I first sat astride the stone pony.
It was my wallet.
Yep, in my desperation I had forgotten all about my wallet being in the back waistband of my pants. It had fallen into the toilet and I had buried that sucker in sausage-shit.
I have seen many terrible things in my life, but that sight still ranks among the worst. Worst EVER. One lonely corner of my wallet, like the tired hand of a swimmer going down for the third time and praying for rescue, stuck just above the cess and the mess. I had no choice but to fish it out.
You can talk about "filthy lucre" all you want to, but I have SEEN it with mine own eyes. I will not regale you with the details of what I did next, but let's just say that the bathroom sink and a lot of soap and water were involved. So was a mighty test of my gag reflex.
In the end, I saved my wallet and the money in it. I also spared my dignity by never telling Recondo what I had done. In fact, the only reason I'm telling the story NOW is because I want to win this contest foul and square.
I AM the Crap-Daddy!
Damn I miss him. *sniff*Posted by: LL on October 7, 2006 10:11 AM
Still as disgusting second time around...Posted by: Lisa W. on October 7, 2006 10:38 AM
I remember one day at the steam plant at work, we were having a farting contest. I was winning the battle and then Rob cut a nice long wet sounding fart, he got up from his chair and ran out the door, when he got back, he said it felt a little wet and that he had just shit his pants. He went home that day without any underwear, he left them in the trash can in the steam plant bathroom. He won the match with that wet fart hands down, CatPosted by: Catfish on October 7, 2006 11:35 AM
Yes, indeed: this is the post that put the quietus to Velociman's "Brown Tsunami" - also a classic.
Rob was many things. Champion Shitblogger is one of 'em...and he had the trophy to prove it.Posted by: Elisson on October 7, 2006 06:32 PM
Good read.Posted by: Kirsten Namskau on October 10, 2006 08:10 AM
Dang, I miss this man. I didn't always like what I read, but it was worth reading.
Elisson, I remember the look of sheer unadulterated delight on his face when you presented that trophy.Posted by: Nancy on October 13, 2006 03:08 PM
That one was a classic for sure. It will set the bar for crap blogging as long as there is an internet.Posted by: Libby on October 14, 2006 10:33 AM
I still come back and read this tale and others when I need a good hard laugh!!
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