The Johnson household was wholesome. A picturesque family of six, each with smiling faces and innocent eyes. Innocent eyes that were forced to witness the unholy acts of early 1996 at the last minute Gag gifts that no one wanted. A Gag gift wrapped in shame…

Built in confident, rural american architecture of the 1960’s, the Johnson Family Home had all the amenities a confident housewife and family would need. A kitchen where the mother could make delicious foods, a basement where the boys could roughhouse, and tidy bedrooms where homework was completed before playtime and bedtimes were never too late. My victim – The upstairs bathroom – sat happily. Clean and unmolested.

Of course when a fat, self-conscious child of 10 has to go boom boom, he will use the most inconspicuous place to hide his porcelain bombs. So, when I was staying with the Johnson’s that day, the upstairs bathroom was the obvious choice to lay some heat. When my sphincter felt the parcel round third and start heading for home, I nonchalantly excused myself from Mortal Kombat in the basement. Up the first set of stairs I went. Through the kitchen where Mrs. Johnson was cooking Tuna Casserole, a staple in any Midwest home. Around the dining room table and into the living room. Tiptoeing around Doctor Johnson quietly dozing to afternoon television and up the second set of stairs. I remember making eye contact with the youngest of Johnson boys as I passed his room, sweat beginning to pilfer my brow. All was calm as I locked the door behind me. Little did anyone know disaster was about to strike in the form of an (estimated) 2lb brown bomb.

It’s funny the things you remember about a traumatizing experience. I remember the toilet seat was one of those extra soft and squishy seats. The kind that makes a soft “pfft” sound when you sit on it for the first time. I remember a copy of “Uncle John’s Bathroom Reader”, as well as the latest edition of “Reader’s Digest”. I remember the toys that sat on the edge of the bathtub – Flash Gordon and G.I. Joe – remnants of the nightly baths we all had as children. I remember being able to see the top of my head in the bathroom mirror as I went about my business. I remember stretching to see if I was tall enough to see my eyes in the mirror whilst defecating. I remember the toilet paper being rough, surprising for a doctor’s household. I remember being amazed at how many wipes I needed. It was like trying to clean a can of brown shoe polish. No matter how much effort I put in, there was always more. I remember standing and, as I pulled up my Hanes Cottons, wishing my mom bought me cool underwear. I remember being nervous about flushing. I remember the water rising.

I remember everything…

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