* This is based on some true shit.
Holy shit, I think to myself, I haven’t dropped a deuce in five days. I have suffered from the occasional bout of constipation in the past, but this was borderline dangerous. How could my body store so much feces? I cringe at the thought of my intestines stuffed like sausages of week-old excrement.
My gas is haunting. I am shit-in-my-pants scared I am actually going to shit in my pants if I dare to break wind. So I hold it in for days, causing horrible stomach aches. I finally put in for sick-call, hoping the nurse might have a solution.
Two days later, I am called to see Nurse Shithouse (as in brick shithouse, because she looks like she could play defensive tackle for the Chicago Bears). She doesn’t give a shit (pun intended). She tells me to drink more water. I demand to see a doctor. She tells me I’m shit out of luck as he’s left for the day. I tell her she’s a shitty nurse as a whiff of gas escapes my clenched butt cheeks. Her eyes start to water. “Holy Mother of God. What is that? Is that you?” she whispers. She jumps out of her chair and hands me an array of medications: fiber pills, stool softener, milk of magnesia, and some laxatives. I only half-heartedly listen to her instructions. I rush back to my cell and take everything.
I warn my cellie to stay clear, that this shit is going to get serious. (I’ll be here all week, folks.) I wait. And wait. Crickets. Then it’s time to lockup for the night.
My eyes pop open around midnight. My stomach sounds like a blender trying to chop rocks. I can sense something evil as a cold breeze passes through the cell, driving shivers up my spine: the shit is about to hit the fan. (Don’t forget to tip the waitress.)
I dive towards the toilet. The onslaught is upon me. It is Third World putrid and biblical in its proportions. There is not enough air freshener on the planet to cover this unholy act. I flush furiously as my cellie rolls over in his bunk, pulling the covers tightly over his head and grunting in disgust. I whimper an apology between holding my breath. It is a shit storm. (Try the salmon. I can do this all day.) A mudslide unlike anything I have ever experienced. I brace myself with both arms against the walls. My legs fall asleep. I lose track of time.
It is nasty and disgusting, yes, and yet, it is also quite lovely. In prison, taking a good poop is as close as we get to sex… and this is the models-gymnasts-twins-ménage à trois of dumps.
Success. I am drenched in sweat, arms shaking from exhaustion. I use up an entire roll of toilet paper to wipe away all evidence of my crime. I bleach the toilet and surrounding floor. I peel myself out of my clothes and change into a fresh pair of boxers. I crawl back into my bunk as my exhaustion overtakes me. I am dream of rolling hills, clam lake waters, and big puffy clouds, with a shit-eating grin on my face.
But then my dream quickly becomes a nightmare. As my eyes struggle to adjust, I can hear my cellie yelling… the dampness between my legs confirms it: I have shit the bed.
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