haterWhen I was younger, I was a weird kid.  I was fat, had a bowl cut, enjoyed gag pranks, loved velveeta cheese, and had a diet consisting of 85% processed foods.  I’m an only child, so I had an imagination as well.  I played with GI Joes, creating massive worlds in my room with string for zip lines and bases to overtake.  I spent countless hours exploring the timber on the acreage where I grew up, constructing fantastic stories of my bravery and heroics.  Obviously, I was always the hero of the day.  The boy who saved the damsel in distress.  I also took huge shits.

Now, I’m not talking about standard hot snakes or steamy piles. No, my poos were were a whole different animal.  Mine were painful pipe bombs that were made to destroy toilets like an artillery shell is made to decimate enemy bunkers.  They were compressed coal bullets that jammed plumbing pipes with ease.

Of course, having poos the size of a hardened baguette created a lot of problems for me from ages 0-15.  I remember playing an AAU baseball tournament and having to shit so bad I was sweating.  I hated port-o potties, but it was the only option.  My coach, who was always the funny guy, went in shortly after me.  Much to my dismay, he saw my fecal matter sitting atop the pile of poo.  Needless to say, he was amazed, and he couldn’t stop talking about “the biggest turd he had ever seen” for the rest of the day.  I’ve never told anyone it was me until this moment.

Fat, sad, and velveeta loving, I had a plethora of poo stories similar to the port-o potty incident.  I was a master plunger by the time I was ten.  I knew how to get rid of skid marks at twelve.  By thirteen, I could leave a bathroom virtually scentless and undisturbed.  I was a shit assassin.  However, there is one dump that I couldn’t silently dispose of.  One shit that stands above the rest.  The final boss at the end of the game.  

A game I lost…


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