I’ve told this story to a few people already, and I was thinking you fuckers would enjoy it, too. The title is exactly what it sounds like.
It was summer vacation, and I was maybe 20 at the time. Our house was undergoing renovations, and we had two live-in workers doing the job full-time. Our house was small – it had two bedrooms (now three), a cozy living room, a hallway that doubled as a dining area, “clean” and “dirty” kitchens, and one bathroom. For a family of seven plus two workers, it was pretty small. You can see where this is going.
I was enjoying my day, minding my own business, my eyes glued to a computer screen as always. I was having a cup of coffee and a cigarette in the middle of the morning, the breakfast of champions. Again, you can see where this is going. Sure enough, 10 minutes later, I felt the rustling of my intestines, as if the Jabberwock itself came whiffling through the tulgey wood.
I walked calmly towards the bathroom, feeling the poop building up right behind my sphincter, ready to be released like eager dogs of war. They were primed, apparently with the power to launch further than any of North Korea’s ballistic missiles. My poop was shaping up to be my toilet’s worst nightmare. It would be akin to the gassing of the troops of Verdun, but more poop than chlorine gas. There would be no escape for my porcelain friend, and it would be glorious. I picked up the Lysol, ready to offset the smell of death and destruction that would inevitably follow the wake of the poop of the century.
And then the bathroom door was locked. I banged at the door, hoping to coax anyone in there to “tangina bilisan mo, taeng tae na ko!” Apparently, one of our workers were in the bathroom. We were in very good terms with these guys so it’s okay to cuss ’em out.
Me: “Hoy baluga tangina lalabas na!”
Baluga: “Sandali kakapasok ko lang!”
This exchange went on for five more minutes. The big one cannot wait any longer. In desperation, I picked up a plastic bag and went outside. At home, we have a little outdoor hallway, kind of a receiving area but outdoors. It had a small, human-height metal gate, with half of it completely solid and the other half made up of grates with spear points (to defend against invaders and/or akyat bahay people). I put my hand inside the plastic bag and put it right above my asshole, because I was gonna do it. This was a better alternative to pooping your shorts. I had no shame. I was gonna do it. I was gonna poop into this plastic bag.
Now, given that I am a man and men are simply not that smart, I put my hand in a plastic bag because I was thinking that I was gonna poop one solid, long, and thick poop. The kind of poop that you could use as a bludgeon. The kind of poop that looks like a baguette, one that you could put in a hotdog bun. But no, that wasn’t the case. I was not to be that lucky. I squatted on the cold, pebbled floor, took a deep breath, and prepared myself for the best poop of my life, albeit done in a plastic bag.
In a disgusting, sludgy torrent, the poop flowed as if a dam just broke. It was a steaming hot pile of semi-liquid poop. Imagine the hot fudge drizzling over a yummy sundae, only instead of a drizzle, it was a drenching. The smell was appalling. I remembered the Holocaust. To my right, the other worker and my little brother stood, watching, not even hiding their laughter and disgust. “Tangina, tumae siya sa plastik!” my little brother screamed. Remember, this was outside, and there were probably people who heard about my plight.
My hand in the plastic bag was barely able to contain the sheer amount of shit that just flowed out from my body. It spilled over from my cupped hand, sending globs of yellow shit hurtling towards the ground. It was messy business, for sure, and the smell didn’t help either. The dog recoiled in disgust and ran away from me. My brother and the other worker were still laughing, probably having asthma attacks in retrospect. And just when I finished, the worker in the bathroom stepped out and looked at the scene in front of him. I was tempted to throw the plastic bag at him. But I didn’t, because I was euphoric. There was relief.
I tied up the plastic bag and threw it in the trash, proud of what I’ve done. And as I was walking back, I forgot about the shit still on the ground and stepped barefoot in it. Beautiful, just beautiful.
Now, what lesson have we learned here today? When pooping in a plastic bag, just hold it open. It’s less messy.