D-Town Doodie
I am a man, therefore I have many shit stories. In fact, every man has a few rectal recitations, but like the famous fables and myths you heard in history class, some are just more exciting and entertaining than others. This is one of those tales. This is the D-Town Doodie Story.
My shoes are soaked and thrown in a corner. I’m standing barefoot in about an inch of murky water blushing horribly while my friend’s mother is dialing up the local plumber. The bottoms of my jeans are sporting a water line and everyone is nervously laughing at me. I have a toilet scrubber brush in my hand when it hits me--this is the only bathroom in the entire house and I’m over a thousand miles from home. I’m completely fucked.
Let’s go back to the beginning, however. It’s 2003. A year removed from my Disney internship I planned a trip to Michigan to meet up with one of my best friends, DL, also a Disney alum. After landing at Metro Airport we hop in the car and begin the 2 hour drive to the middle of nowhere (also known as Richmond) to DL’s parents’ house (as an aside: I’ve since met at least 4 other people from Detroit and not one of them has ever heard of or been to Richmond, Michigan). We finally make it to DL’s neighborhood and it has all the small town flavor one could imagine: The local car dealership. The friendly breakfast nook. All that was missing was the apple pie smell and the white picket fences.
After unloading my bags and making some lunch, DL’s parents tell me that I came at a great time since the whole family will be coming tomorrow because it’s DL’s sister’s high school graduation. They’re going to have coolers full of beer with some barbeque so we have to make a beer run. No problem there considering just a few months prior I had celebrated my 21st birthday and was overwhelmed with a sense of alcoholic entitlement.
We head out to the grocery store where I’m fascinated that I can purchase alcohol in such an establishment. I had heard about these places and even saw them down in Florida, but considering I’ve lived most of my life in New England, the concept is somewhat foreign to me. DL picks up a few cases of Labatt Blue while I’m still marveling that one aisle over from the breads and bagel section I could conceivably buy a handle of Captain Morgans. Because I’m poor and enjoy things like eating on a daily basis I opt for a case of Natty Light instead. We grab another case of Natty for tonight since DL wants to go over to his buddy Trapjaw’s house and get shitfaced. I obviously let him pay because 1.) I was currently unemployed at the time and 2.) I’m a genuinely cheap bastard. We drop one of the cases off at DL’s house and keep the rest stashed away as we make our way over to Trapjaw’s.
I had met Trapjaw and his sister when they came down to Disney to see DL but their parents were around so this was my first encounter with the real Trapjaw. This guy is an animal. He made a funnel out of a two liter bottle and plumbers tubing. Oh, and I kindly bestowed the nickname on him because he has an affinity for biting the tops off of beer cans. I’m not talking about the tab either, I mean the entire top of the can. It was pretty cool but I kept my distance for the rest of the night. Either way DL, Trapjaw, his sister, and I got thoroughly wrecked to the point I woke up the next morning to an alarm clock going off, fully clothed and slouched over in one corner of the room. We all had to be up early so we could go over and help out DL’s parents set up everything for the graduation party (both DL and Trapjaw’s sisters were graduating) so drinking heavily might not have been the smartest idea. Then again, considering what would happen later that day, being hungover was the least of my problems. Although, looking back on it now, I’m almost positive being hungover was what lead to my stomach ache which in turn lead to…well, we’re getting there so hold tight.
So DL and I head back to his parent’s house while Trapjaw and his sister stay behind to clean up (well played on our part). Trapjaw calls to tell us they will be over later in the afternoon since his parents want to take them out to eat to celebrate for his sister. We make it back to the house but are in no mood to talk to anyone because of our respective hangovers. Everyone starts cleaning things up and rearranging furniture when I start to get the first waves of stomach pain. This wasn’t your average pain though. Nay, these were accompanied by a full on stomach gurgle; the kind that scares small children and leaves pets whimpering.
I let it pass and pretended to do more work until I decided to try and eat something in hopes of calming my stomach down. Obviously I’m an idiot since it just felt like it was stuck in my throat in that lovely pre-puke sort of way. This is the point where I started to sweat uncontrollably even with the air conditioner on. As my luck would have it, this was also the point where roughly 20-30 members of DL’s family started showing up bearing graduation gifts--I’m talking grandmothers, cousins, little nieces and nephews, obnoxious uncles, the works--and here I am looking like Tom Hanks at the end of Philadelphia (minus the sympathy, drama, and AIDS). Because I’m a trooper I make the rounds and try to be as pleasant as possible when introducing myself to these strangers.
After shaking multiple hands and using the fake charm I perfected at Disney I slip away through the sliding glass door to face off with this inner beast once and for all. Before I go any further, I must say DL has a unique bathroom. Because of the high winds and heavy rain/snow Richmond receives, the majority of the houses are only one story. Therefore there isn’t a lot of free space so people have to accommodate the best they can and DL’s family is no exception. They installed doors on either side of the bathroom which are normally left open (turning the area into a makeshift hallway), quickly connecting the dining room to the bedroom hallway.
Basically instead of having to worry about someone knocking on one door, not only did I have to worry about a second door, but I also had the discomfort of knowing people might try and come in in order to get to the other side of the house. I tried locking both doors but since they were of the sliding variety the locks tended to stick and DL had already told me about the time he’d locked himself in there and couldn’t get out. Needless to say even though the doors weren’t locked, I was going to defend them from opening come hell or high water (which in fact was about to happen).
The moment I sat down I let loose like a Busch Garden’s roller coaster taking off. This thing was pure evil to the point I felt like my body was being purged and cleansed of all it’s sins. I actually remember laughing to myself because it sounded like something out of a South Park episode. Afterwards I had to use roughly 1/4th of the toilet paper roll since I had received so much backsplash I thought Shamu was jumping around down there. I managed to get my pants around my waist when I turned and attempted the initial flush. Unfortunately all I saw was ass barf swirling around to the tune of running water. Knowing the bowl was clogged I started freaking out since there was no plunger standing guard in the corner. Honestly, how can you not have one of these in a modern bathroom? That’s toilet ethics 101. Regardless, the only thing at my disposal was one of those bristled bowl scrubbers--the plunger‘s gay stepbrother. In retrospect this only made the problem worse because instead of clearing a path for the bowl to empty, I was literally just packing more shit in the way (similar to a Civil War soldier packing a cannon with a powder charge).
Once the water level had fallen a few inches, I decided to press my luck and flush a second time. Initially I thought it was going to work since I could hear it struggling to clear the makeshift damn I had unknowingly built. Wrong. I immediately began to pull up on the flusher in hopes of stopping it since the toilet was clogged while fresh water was already flowing in to refill the bowl. Not happening. This thing rose faster than R. Kelly’s heartbeat at a Middle School dance. It’s about here in the story when I started doing the oh shit! dance. You know, that little nervous hop where you second guess yourself and go to do one thing and then another all while grimacing and looking from side to side for help? Yea, that one.
As the poop stew reached the brim of the toilet I cracked the door and did one of those whispered yells that kind of sounds like a sneeze. After a few tries I managed to get DL’s attention. Buzzed and obnoxious, he came over and of course was questioning aloud why I had the door partially cracked and was calling for him from inside the bathroom. I told him to shut up as I explained the situation but without even hesitating he pops his head in and literally screams, "HOLY SHIT IT’S GETTING EVERYWHERE!" Of course in pure reaction mode I peek over my shoulder only to see Snickers Fun Size shit bars cascading down the bowl. Lucky for me his parents’ bright white bathmat was there to soak up all the fun. Unfortunately the little linen couldn’t withstand the brown avalanche gurgling up and spilling out onto the linoleum. DL is now crying laughing and shouting for his parents to come help. It’s official, I hate my life.
You couldn’t pay me to be more embarrassed than I am at this point. Not only did his parents have to see their wrecked bathroom with my shit armada floating around but they decided to help me clean it up. Thanks, just scoop a steaming pile of guilt on top of that landfill of remorse why don’t you. As my luck would have the other family members begin to notice that something’s wrong and start asking questions. Meanwhile I’m shoving towels under the cracks of the doors as DL’s mom is laying down rolls of toilet paper to soak up whatever she can. I can’t stand the splashing noise and wet squeaking sound of my shoes so I kick them off and go barefoot in the shit water.
Trying to take control and responsibility for the situation, I roll up one sleeve and physically dip my arm into the overflowing bowl in hopes of prying loose the clogged toilet paper (praying that’s all that’s stuck down there). I manage to retrieve a grapefruit sized wad of tp while hearing DL’s mom on the phone with the plumber. Thankfully DL’s dad braves the stench and steps foot into the abyss to try and help out. With the fruity poop scrubber I manage to work some of the mess back as he lays down new towels and hits the flusher again. Finally I can see some light at the end of the tunnel. DL yells to his mom (and apparently to the rest of the neighborhood) that the water’s going down and to hang up the phone.
I glance up and for the first time and notice that at least 4 other people who aren’t in DL’s immediate family are enjoying the shitacular spectacle I’ve just put on. My jeans are soaked and stained. I’m barefoot amongst a cornucopia of shit and towels. My right arm is dripping with doodie water. I’m sweating from the hangover/freaking out/cleaning up. To top it all off I smell like I just crawled up John Goodman’s ass and did backflips. Did I mention that most of DL’s entire family was there and it also happened to be his sister’s graduation party? Oh ok, just checking.
Being the considerate and tolerant people that they are, DL’s parents consoled (but did not touch) me as I threw everything I had on into the washing machine and jumped in the shower. They were even kind enough to let me stay the duration of my vacation in their house. I bet they spied on me the next time I used the bathroom though. Maybe I should’ve just taken a shit in their garden. At least if I got it everywhere out there it would’ve doubled as fertilizer and I’d be the hero of the botanical community.
