ASSPEE
by MPTGraves
Saturday began, like most days, just after 11:59pm. As usual, I was driving through a hail storm on the interstate on the latter half of a 450 mile road trip to a funeral for a distant relative. A couple of sodden, tinny, tapping hours later and I had made it home, mostly unscathed but for an overwhelming sense of fatigue and a bit of emotional discombobulation courtesy of the macabre errand whence I’d lately returned. ‘Round about 3am, I staggered fore to take my slumber with nary a thought for supper or morning, and was somewhat less than thrilled to find myself sitting up stock straight in bed at 9am, without even the matutinal bleat of my alarm clock to blame for my wakefulness. Knowing that I had plenty of chores to complete prior to my martial arts class that afternoon, I set about the tedium of laundry and bills. I had no idea that I had already begun a unique series of events which would rival Macbeth’s witches’ at their brewing for complexity and calamity.
The weather that had so thoughtfully accompanied me through the longest watch of the night had become the type of awkward visitor that doesn’t realize when his welcome has been overstayed, such that Saturday was shaping up to be downright torrential. By the time noon rolled around, I was beginning to pang a bit peckish, and turned my attention to the acquisition of nutrition. Somewhat unique among my fellow martial artists in Capoeira (“capoeiristas”, in the vernacular), I require sustenance immediately before physical exertion, needing more than an hour to cool down before I can stomach solid food, during which time I am possessed of a nigh-unslakable thirst. Having forgone breakfast and fearing a lack of energy for the rigors of the upcoming workout, I hit the taco bell drive thru on the way to class for some nachos bel grande®, steak soft tacos supreme, and a grilled stuft burrito®, ignoring that nagging little voice that sounds in the back of the mind like the knell of impending remorse.
Class turnout was low due to the inclement weather, but we enjoyed a few hours training all manner of frenetic kicks, acrobatic ground movements on our hands, and numerous reflexive dodges alone and in pairs; which coincidentally served to jostle our innards as well as any industrial-grade agitator. Per tradition, we altogether embarked on the venture of lunch after the rigors of our vigorous workout, and we came to the consensus to patronize Panchitos Mexican Restaurant. Living in southern Texas, I am luckily possessed of a penchant for all things comida Mexicana, and held no compunction whatsoever for our dining selection.
Knowing that I would rediscover my hunger closer to the end of the meal than the beginning, I hurried to be one of the first to our destination. My aversion to unhealthy sodas coupled with my distaste for most tap water led me to order a pitcher of tea to rehydrate the desiccated husk that my body had become during class. I drank with the urgency of the Bedouin who has come to the oasis having too-long felt the blasting nuclear rays of the deadly desert sun, and quaffed nearly two full pitchers before finally ordering myself taquitos.
Our group is a social one, and jokes and camaraderie were proliferating wildly about the table as belts were slackened and desserts considered in earnest. I had only just begun to nibble at my entrée when I began to feel the far off rumblings of a coming thunderstorm. The ominous sensation became somewhat more so when I realized that the event was limited in scope to my own bowels, and that stirrings deep within me were in fact the tunings of a dread orchestra, preparing for its debut with the first movement of an epic symphony.
“Oh.” I moaned abruptly, involuntarily, the realization nearly putting me into shock as my eyes bulged, my pulse quickened, and sweat burst forth, beading upon my brow. My skin, pale at its halest, found its way to ashen in an instant, like a snow cone from which all of the syrup has been most forcefully sucked. The relatively small bit of space in the universe that is reserved for my torso and its contents expanded internally to cavernous capacity, such that each minute gurgle echoed through miles of intestine and bladder to reverberate and rebound upon itself in an ever-growing threat that was harbinger to an impending cataclysm.
I grasped the arms of my chair and sat up very straight, suddenly focused like a perfectly ground lens on my innermost chakra. A half-chewed bite of taquito was stashed, forgotten, in my left cheek, walled behind clenched teeth through which a wave of saliva was making its inexorable march forth unbidden. What felt like moments of intense combat between my abdominal muscles and my stomach contents lasted long enough for me to realize that most of our party had left the table. Accurately identifying the rumblings in my stomach as those being of the most immediate variety, I hurriedly forced myself to swallow and paid my bill, muttering a few words to one of my fellows that I would catch them up before making my way, stiff-legged, to the men’s room.
I thanked God for the blessing I found therein, for not only were the facilities clean and well ordered, but the toilet was contained not within a cramped stall, but behind an actual door in an actual wall, which rose ten feet before terminating beneath the exposed, vaulted ceiling far overhead. There was plenty of space in this cell for one to relieve oneself as comfortably as possible, and I began to make preparations for what I now knew would be no silent passing, but rather the migration of an entire species to as-yet undiscovered continents.
I realized that my t-shirt would be at great risk near the epicenter, and quickly shrugged it off, hanging it from the door handle several feet away. I laid a hasty layer of toilet paper on the seat, almost chuckling at the futility of the action in relation to my expectation of what was to come. I threw down my shorts and stepped out of one side, intuitively grasping that I should free myself of any restrictions while I still had the chance.
I dropped on to the seat in a rush, unclenching on the descent, one hand down to shield the frontward splashing, the other straight up in preparation for an 8 second ride that lasted nearly 2 minutes. The force of impact on the surface of the water blew a spout of water and liquid feces that painted virtually everything north of water-level an ochre shade of tan. Public toilet seats being what they are, even the exposed piping and the wall behind were not spared by the even-handed splash.
My feet shot upward as my legs locked rigid, my toes jerking back so far as to scrape my knees as my heels made contact with walls at shoulder-height on either side. Every muscle in my body seized so violently that the lower corners of my lips took on a grimace encompassing my shoulders. Even my hair tensed, clutching my scalp for fear of being passed on in the tumult.
The ongoing deluge of drowning digestive disaster sounded like the Heart of Niagra on a 2-cd set, digitally re-mastered for this special, limited run release. Odors that far outstripped those of mere putrescine or skunk musk permeated the air, walls, and souls of everything within 30 cubic feet of the blast radius. “Catharsis” was redefined in Gargantuan, earth-shattering proportions the likes of which Richter was never privy as I struggled to keep a semblance of a seal with the seat. I felt empty of all that could have been within me with no sign of cessation, and wondered if my rectum had become some sort of conduit through which the collective waste of another dimension was being expelled perforce.
I heard what must have been the tearing of heaven asunder as trumpets blasted an accompaniment to the angels’ choir and a light from above illuminated me. I saw the creation of the universe and the destruction of worlds, from deliverance to devastation. I lived through all the long millennia in an instant; experiencing life too sweet to describe and the agony of millions all in a twinkling. I remember bidding the last air from my lungs farewell as my vision became tunneled and my aching muscles began to cramp.
I came to, slumped over my knees, one arm supporting my head, my chest heaving. My other hand hung limply, dripping on to the floor like a stubborn faucet; tip, tap, tip. One of my sandals had landed across the room, and sagged against the wall pitifully. A sheen of sweat coated my body and I became aware of the terrible sensation of moisture and stickiness beneath me. Half of the toilet paper that I had been sitting on was ground to a soggy mess, the other half pasted to my thighs with perspiration. I took several moments to compose myself, breathing deeply through my mouth to ward off the unholy stench. I fumbled behind me and managed to flush, knowing that this might take a while. Thankfully the room was well stocked with paper, so I began the careful process of cleanup, systematically mopping most of my nether region before proceeding to the rest of the room. Several flushes later, I set myself to the task of carefully re-dressing, washed my hands several times, and gulped clean air by the lung-full in the anteroom.
In further contemplating my dietary and fitness-related choices of the day, I marveled at the backwards state of a universe and the design of a human body to be able to produce, from simple cat-meat and grease, shaken well with Capoeira, and catalyzed by half a gallon of iced tea; as unpleasant a byproduct as asspee (which I have learned cannot be passed from the human body in any non-offensive or not-grievously-grotesque fashion!) It is exceedingly clear to me, now, why water-pistol nozzles are not modeled after anuses. This is why, if you are planning on decanting from yourself a quantity of the compound I synthesized, I suggest you find a more suitable dispenser. I would only ask that under no circumstances should you feel that you ought apprise me of the progress of any of your endeavors to these (or any other) ends! -mg