A Short Essay on Fecal Intrigue
The Venturing for the Great Turd
It was your average Friday night, all of the day had been purely meant for this journey of finding the inner self: Needing to take a shit. There was, however, an ominous issue. The room was pitch black, besides the light emitted from the computer screen. For all I knew, there could have been rapists and vegetarians out there, just waiting for me to wander nervously to the bathroom, and sexually abuse me, or condemn me for eating like a normal human being. I needed to poop, but there was just so much death out there, glaring me in the half-drowsy, sexy-ass face. I felt lost, for I needed to release my poop, but if I dared go out there I'd get scared shitless, rendering my journey useless, and not nearly as exciting. But there was hope. My girlfriend. In these dark times, she offered to do one of the best things a girlfriend could do for her lover. Hold my hand as I made way to the porcelain throne. My heart was picked up from the ashes, like a poopoo from a dog that had been laying in the grass, only much cleaner and less nonsensical. There was a chance. As I expressed my pride, I realized I was suddenly at a disposition. The need to poop had vanished from my colon. My heart sank like that bigass ship that hit an ice cube in the early 1900s. The feces had been forced back up my rectum from my emotional releases, rendering my physical releases out of the picture. I carried on though, not letting myself get too under the weather from this loss. I continued glorious conversation with my wonder of a girlfriend, chewing the fat about a lady with a gay ass name from the 70s, and about my girlfriend's own waste release adventuring, further proving how adorable she is, in that she poops like a pro. Suddenly I was struck with a familiar feeling that crept upon my anus like ants running out on an anthill that had recently been struck. There was the reoccurrence of the need to shit once again! Hope had returned to the house of
It was your average Friday night, all of the day had been purely meant for this journey of finding the inner self: Needing to take a shit. There was, however, an ominous issue. The room was pitch black, besides the light emitted from the computer screen. For all I knew, there could have been rapists and vegetarians out there, just waiting for me to wander nervously to the bathroom, and sexually abuse me, or condemn me for eating like a normal human being. I needed to poop, but there was just so much death out there, glaring me in the half-drowsy, sexy-ass face. I felt lost, for I needed to release my poop, but if I dared go out there I'd get scared shitless, rendering my journey useless, and not nearly as exciting. But there was hope. My girlfriend. In these dark times, she offered to do one of the best things a girlfriend could do for her lover. Hold my hand as I made way to the porcelain throne. My heart was picked up from the ashes, like a poopoo from a dog that had been laying in the grass, only much cleaner and less nonsensical. There was a chance. As I expressed my pride, I realized I was suddenly at a disposition. The need to poop had vanished from my colon. My heart sank like that bigass ship that hit an ice cube in the early 1900s. The feces had been forced back up my rectum from my emotional releases, rendering my physical releases out of the picture. I carried on though, not letting myself get too under the weather from this loss. I continued glorious conversation with my wonder of a girlfriend, chewing the fat about a lady with a gay ass name from the 70s, and about my girlfriend's own waste release adventuring, further proving how adorable she is, in that she poops like a pro. Suddenly I was struck with a familiar feeling that crept upon my anus like ants running out on an anthill that had recently been struck. There was the reoccurrence of the need to shit once again! Hope had returned to the house of