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About 7 or 8 years ago, my buddy Nate was visiting Salt Lake City from San Diego. To celebrate, a group of us planned on meeting up for dinner at an Indian restaurant downtown, then going bar hopping. We carpooled into the city, parked and walked about a half block to the restaurant. Upon approaching the restaurant, we passed an alley complete with requisite dumpster, graffiti-lined walls and an oily puddle of water filling the middle of it. Trying to be clever, but mostly just being insensitive and ignorant, I joked as we passed the alley that it was where hobos would probably go to shit. Oh, the wit! I hate me sometimes.
Chapter 1 - The Drop
Dinner was uneventful, but fun. Afterward, we planned to walk around the corner to a local dive bar, which we did. We found a booth in the bar and eventually more friends joined us.
A few hours into the night, I was hit with what I call "The Drop". A partial definition for you:
(n) The sudden and strong need to shit, no matter what.
Once hit with the Drop, there is no turning back. One must find a place to safely turd, or else. I blamed the Indian food, but it probably had more to do with my altogether horrible diet. So, I excused myself from our booth and speedily made my way to the bathroom. Luckily, there was no line.
Being a single-toilet restroom, I locked the door behind me and proceeded to drop trow to relieve myself. This took some time, and upon flushing the toilet, the resulting mass of poop and toilet paper plugged it. Now usually, I would plunge the shit (ha!) out of a toilet to fix this situation, but alas, there was no plunger. I had half a mind to just leave the toilet plugged when someone attempted to open the door from the hallway, and found it locked. Knowing this, I suspected a gathering line to the bathroom I now occupied, and I did NOT want to be that guy in the bar everyone knew plugged the toilet up with his shit, as we still had a couple hours of good drinking left, a comfortable booth to sit in and no plans to leave.
So, out of desperation, I flushed the toilet again, hoping that this time it would unclog and I would be in the clear.
That didn't happen.
The toilet water started rising, and the person on the other side of the door now knocked, saying something through the door that I couldn't quite hear over the hydraulic pumping of water, but suspected was something along the lines of, "What, did you clog the shitter or something?". I nervously responded, "One second!", and out of sheer panic, rolled up my left sleeve (I'm left-handed, which is the same hand as some Middle Eastern cultures use exclusively to wipe their ass.), and dove it deep into the impending cesspool of my own fecal matter and toilet paper, grabbing the wad at the bottom and pulling it up enough to let the water drain. With a few dry-heaves, I held the weighty wad in my hand long enough until I thought it was safe enough to drop (ha!) the package back into the toilet. Voila! It worked, and the toilet flushed properly.
At this point I pulled myself together, proud of my accomplishment, scrubbed my arm and hands with soap and water, made it through another round of now loud knocking, opened the bathroom door and without giving the angry customer a chance to finish his, "What the fu--", sped past the new line of people who were waiting saying loudly, "Sorry dude. Someone clogged the toilet and I didn't want to leave it that way for you. It's all yours."
I returned to my friends at our booth, answered questions about what took so long (it had been over 20 minutes), sufficiently grossed them out (they wouldn't let me touch anything), and proceeded to enjoy the night.
Chapter 2 - The Drop 2: Drop Harder
Here's the thing about The Drop: it's like the Wachowski brothers of bodily dysfunction. It wants sequels when nobody else does, probably including yourself at this point. The full definition explains this:
(n) The sudden and strong need to shit, no matter what. It usually comes in waves. Be warned, poor bastard.
I wasn't warned at the time. About an hour later, it hit me again. I excused myself to the bathroom to grumbles and groans from my buddies, but a longer line to the bathroom had now formed. I waited in it for a few minutes, and it hadn't moved. I knew I wouldn't make it. Where could I go? The Indian restaurant around the corner would surely now be closed. Was there somewhere nearby--
There was: Hobo Alley.
I darted out of the bar and around the corner, unbuckling and unzipping along the way. Without any concern for my personal safety at this point, I slipped past the dumpster, jumped over the puddle and proceeded to urinate on the graffiti wall while clenching my butt-cheeks as tightly as I could to keep from fully experiencing the irony of the moment.
Luckily, peeing reduced the pressure caused by The Drop enough for me to make my way back to the bar and round up my friends. I devised a plan and it was in motion, we were to rendezvous at a friend's place a couple of miles away and hang out. I could surely make it there to use the restroom.
Chapter 3 - The Drop 3: A Good Day to Drop OR The Urge Returds
So, in two cars we headed to the house. I drove one car, and my buddy Steve, who owned the house we were to meet at drove the second. I reached his house first with the friends who rode along. Steve, driving himself and the girls, hadn't arrived after 5 minutes of waiting.
I checked his doors to see if they were open as the urge to turd had returned to full power. No luck. I tried calling Steve to see how far out he was. No answer.
I made my way to his backyard in haste. There was no time to lose. I unbuckled, unzipped and squatted in his yard. I lost my balance and caught myself with my back hitting his chain-link fence. The metallic crash woke children sleeping next door as I heard screams, and made my friend Cardy, who was still in the front yard, peer around the house to see if I was okay, only to scream himself when he saw me, pants down, squatting. I yelled for him to look away. He covered his eyes and promptly turned away regretting what he saw.
And I did it. I pooped a little dollop of a turd in Stephen's backyard, right next to his fence. Finding leaves, I wiped, and relieved, returned to the front yard. Cardy was speechless, still holding his hand over his mouth, unable to make eye contact with me. Devon asked if I did what he thought I had just done. Trying to bring levity to the moment, I replied with an, "Oh yeah...". That didn't work.
My phone rang. It was Stephen. I answered, casually.
Stephen: Hey. The girls wanted to get burritos, so we'll be there in 3 minutes.
Me: That's cool. But, just so you know, because you guys had to get burritos, I just shit in your yard.
Stephen: You what?
Me: You heard me. I couldn't hold it.
After that call, Stephen showed up with our other friends, and the rest of the night went well. A good time was had by all, and the Drop had been vanquished.
The next morning I'm awoken to a call from Stephen.
Me (hungover): Uuuugh...
Stephen: What's up, Poopypants?
Stephen: I have a shovel and garbage bag here for you. Come clean up your poop. Morgann (his girlfriend who is now his wife) made breakfast. Come get some.
And so I did. I don't make fun of homeless people any more. In fact, when I meet them, I try to point them to the nearest shelter, pantry where they can get food, and toilet with a plunger.
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