Throwing Poo

I've got a friend who gets invited to parties.  And fortunately for me, my friend is someone who thinks protocol is a giant flying dinosaur (he is not, however, sold on the idea that they are extinct).  In other words, he doesn't have any problem with me tagging along, usually sans invitation.  Such was the case with an Ohio State vs. Michigan football party on Saturday at a local bar. 

Lately work has been totally eating my ass.  I've been put in charge of a project that is causing a lot of anxiety, due in no small part to the fact that my boss is a meddling, incompetent fucktard.  It all came to a culmination last week and the stress had, in turn, wreaked havoc on my system. 

Anyway, on Saturday morning I was eagerly anticipating an afternoon of drinking and watching violence in colorful uniforms.  The all-the-beer-you-can-drink-and-all-the-wings-you-can-eat-for-$20 theme of the party was right up my alley.  Or maybe I should say "down my alley."

Not long into the first quarter, a sudden case of stomach cramps hit me like a tsunami of unthinkably stinky things.  I immediately weaved my way through the crowd to assess the commode situation, figuring that we would become well acquainted before the afternoon ended. 

The bathroom was a health code special: one stall, one urinal.  With nearly 100 rowdy drunken Buckeye fans milling about, these units were about to be tested for both strength and endurance. 

At this point, I think it is also important to note that one of my friends is a 300 lb. shaved gorilla that thinks it's funny to cut the lights in the bathroom and then beat the crap out of anyone too indisposed to defend his self.  Actually, it is very funny when you're not the one getting thumped.  This is such a common occurrence that a few weeks ago, when I was in a bathroom in a St. Louis restaurant, someone accidentally bumped the light switch and I instinctively squealed in delighted horror.      

Suffice to say, this bar's bathroom was not going to be a place where I could laze about as sane and decent folk patiently waited for my horrible episode to end.

Before long, the hot flashes and cold sweats started.  Making matters worse was the fact that every time the Buckeyes scored  - and they scored a lot - gorilla-boy would bear hug me, requiring Vulcan-like concentration to not muddy myself.

Finally, I could take no more, clenched-ass-cheek-shuffled out the door and eased into my car.  I figured I had maybe 10 minutes before the levee broke, but as I pulled out of the driveway, my Hollywood moment arrived.  The tidal wave/lava flow/avalanche was bearing down on me and I was not going to make it.   That's when three miracles happened.

Miracle One: There was a BP gas station on the corner with an open, single-user men's bathroom containing an abundance of toilet paper.

Miracle Two:  There was no recent, horrible disaster that typifies gas station bathrooms.

Miracle Three:  I'm pretty sure I saw God.

And there you have it: the happiest moment of my week. 

P.S. Please support your local BP station.  They are there when you need them most.