Talking Crap

I was just reading a damned funny story here at Hammer's (not Slaghammer's) Blog and it made me think of a similar story from my youth. (WARNING- this story is tasteless, gross, vile, and funny) I was working in a swanky restaurant in Denver as a waiter and bartender and this whopping great big fat guy came in one Sunday for the buffet. For those of you who never worked in food service, Sunday buffets are punishment for the staff. I was bartending, because I was the rookie on the bar staff, and realistically, who can screw up a Bloody Mary or Mimosa? So, much like "Mr. Creosote" in Monty Python's Life of Brian, this man eats an impressive amount of food and stops by the toilet (the hallway to which was near the end of the bar) and I forget all about him. This would have been in the early 90's and the New Orleans Saints started the season 8-0 and I was amazed. I must have been watching their game when he left. Before very long a patron came up to me and told me the men's room needed, uh, attention... Now, I know what unabashed pigs men can be and am steeled by the fact that my mother would talk about autopsies over dinner in my youth. I see myself as being mighty resistant to gross shit. None of this could have prepared me for what I was to behold- the shock and the majesty. In the handicapped stall (and who doesn't prefer the handicapped stall? All that space, and handles to grab a hold of in case of a struggle) there was the most amazingly disgusting dilemma. Mr. Creosote had shit a turd of a diameter similar to my ankle or calf. Here was a man clearly capable of effortless childbirth. The turd coiled like a soft serve ice cream and wound itself up above the waterline to a spire of such height that the top was shaped like a pagoda's roof from presumably pressing against his ass cheeks. The toilet paper used was scattered about the stall in a violent manner, and the turd was remarkably pristine. I stood, dumbstruck, imagining the sequence of events that must have been required to accomplish this spectacle, sometimes laughing and gagging. I then went to collect a crowd of spectators. I should have charged admission, but before long the restroom was standing room only. Male and female alike, testing their own limits and constitutions, forever scarring their view of humanity and not a one wanting to deal with any resolution short of closing the place down and opening up somewhere else. The manager on duty (doodie?) in the end decided to pay the dishwasher $50 to go in the stall and fillet the poogoda with a steak knife and fork, and carry each slab on a saucer to the other toilet and flush it incrementally. Such was the manner in which this accomplishment had been undone. I don't know if the knife, fork, and saucer were thrown out or washed, but I never ate there again. Also noteworthy is how far people will go to earn an extra $50 bucks.

I know that O has a comparable story of horror and humor, and perhaps with a little prodding can be bothered to write about it on Pant's Blog sometime. Or, alternatively, we can let this side of my sense of humor alone, and move on to pastures new?