Pinching a Loaf Away from Home

Earlier today I was helping my friend Barry move. I hate moving, and I don’t particularly like helping others move. But, if you offer me enough money—only money works, no free beer and pizza—or if you’re a good enough friend, I’ll consider helping you schlep furniture and boxes of ridiculous junk from one location to another. In the case of Barry, it was because he’s a really good friend. He has done music for three of my films, acted in one of them, and has always been a really stand-up guy. I actually consider him to be more like family than just a friend, which is why I was helping him move earlier today.

As I was driving over to what is now his old house, I was trying to think of exactly what it was that makes Barry such a good friend. There is a long list of character traits that he possesses, and as a musician, he creates music that brings a smile to my face (he even wrote a song that has become my official theme song in life). But of all the things I can say about Barry, the one thing that defines our friendship most clearly in my mind is the fact that I once took a shit at his house.

Okay, right about now some of you are probably thinking that moving your bowels at a friend’s house is not that big of a deal. And if that’s what you’re thinking, let me tell you that you’re absolutely wrong. Taking a shit anywhere other than the privacy of your own bathroom is always a big deal. And besides that, this was no ordinary shit I took at Barry’s house.

It was a rather nice summer day, and I was at Barry’s place working on some project, and my stomach was killing me. Like a fool, I had eaten at Jack-in-the-Box earlier, which may give some of you an idea of where I was digestively. My colon was talking to me, and it wasn’t happy. I tried my hardest to hold it, but at some point it became clear that I needed to take a dump, or more specifically, there was a storm brewing in my intestines that was diarrhea-ish in nature. So, I excused myself, slipped into the bathroom, and took one of the quickest craps of my life, and thought that I was done. But as we all know, sometimes when you have the trots, the first run is more like taking the cork out of the bottle, and it’s only a matter of time before you’re racing back to the can. Basically, the first loaf I pinched was just a primer for one of the meanest, nastiest, explosive shits I’ve ever taken in my life. And it was very traumatic for me.

At this point, I should admit that I have a “thing” about going to the bathroom anywhere that is not my home. I’m sure some of you can grunt one out, or water the plants pretty much anywhere, anytime, but I’m not like that. Going Number One isn’t that bad—although I do have a urethra problem that sometimes causes a second stream which can miss the bowl all together. But when it comes to dropping a deuce, I’m simply apprehensive about this sort of stuff.

When I was about five or six years old, my mother and I were at this department store called Caldors, and I had to go potty really bad. My mom sent me into the men’s room by myself, where I proceeded to take what amounts to the first nasty crap that I can actually recall. Before this, I had no concept of what it was to take a nasty, smelly crap, but this one particular bowel movement would forever change my life.

As I sat there on the toilet in the men’s room at Caldors, my feet unable to even reach the floor, two other guys came into the bathroom. I don’t know how old they were, as I was in a stall with the door closed, but I remember thinking that their voices didn’t quite sound like adults, nor did they sound like kids my own age. I figured they were teenagers, and they were overwhelmed by the raw funk of my shit. “God damn, what the fuck died in here?” said one of the teenagers. “It smells nasty as a motherfucker in here,” said the other teenager.

“What’s wrong with you?” one of the guys asked me through the stall. “People’s shit ain’t supposed to be smellin’ like that!”

“Yeah, man, something’s wrong with you,” said the other guy.

I was mortified. Up until that point in my life, the concept that my shit might smell bad to other people had never occurred to me. But here I was, at the tender age of six, grunting one out on the toilet, and being ridiculed for the noxious odors being produced by my dookie. It was traumatic. It was even more traumatic when the two guys left the bathroom, and I heard one of them say to my mom, “Is that your kid in there, ‘cause he’s really stinkin’ the joint up.”

My mother leaned her head into the men’s room and said, “Honeybunch, are you okay?” I told her I was fine, but then she said, “Are you sure you’re okay?” And that’s when I knew that she could smell it too, and that my shit was really smelly and gross. And in that moment, my life changed forever.

I had another traumatic experience about a year or two after that, when I was in third grade. Back then, the classrooms had a boy’s room and a girl’s room. One day, I had a terrible stomach ache, and even though I was still suffering from the trauma of the Caldors incident, I had to take a crap. So, I went to the bathroom—which you had to get permission to do, which meant everyone knew you were going to the bathroom—and it seemed to take forever. It was a monster dooker that just kept coming and coming. I was seven or eight at the time, but I remember sitting there on the toilet, and being painfully aware that I was spending far too much time on the toilet, and I hoped no one else had noticed how long I was in the crapper, because to me it seemed like forever.

When I finally came out of the bathroom, Charles Chapman, this kid who walked with a limp, was waiting to use the toilet. Right then I sensed trouble. Someone else had been forced to wait for me to finish in the bathroom. “Took you long enough,” said Charles with a snide tone meant to cause humiliation. “Let’s see if I can spend that much time in there.”

Charles Chapman was successful in making me feel like a freak. Had everyone else in the class been paying that much attention to how long I was pounding one out? And did they notice the smell when I opened the door, because I was certain that I had seen Charles cringe in disgust as he entered the funk-filled bathroom.

Ever since these two moments, I have had an almost irrational fear of taking a crap anywhere outside of my home. During my four years of high school, I only took a shit once on campus. The same is true for college. And during a four-year relationship with one of my ex-girlfriends, I never once took a dump at her place (or even farted in front of her). One time, I was on a date, and I felt a sudden onset of what I knew would be a case of the runs, so I pretended that I had left my wallet at home, drove back to my place, left my date in the car with the engine running, ran inside, took care of business in record time, and proceeded on with the date like nothing had happened.

The thing about taking a crap, either at someone else’s home, or at public place, is that you never know what to expect. My bathroom at home has a vent, matches, incense, a can of Lysol, a plunger, and when I get down to less than six rolls of toilet paper, its time to make a trip to Costco to get the jumbo pack. I know what sort of payload my toilet can take. I know when I’m going to need to flush more than once. And on the off-chance I actually plug the toilet, I’ve got a plunger right there.

But the last time I was visiting my friend Bryan and his family in Washington D.C., I actually plugged the toilet. I looked all over for a plunger, but there was none to be found. I kicked the toilet, cussed it out, pleaded with it, and even considered reaching in and just giving everything a push. Okay, I’m not going to lie, I actually did reach into the bowl and give it a push, because that was less humiliating than the thought of walking out of the bathroom, and asking for a plunger in front of Bryan’s mother, mother-in-law, and about five other people: “Um, excuse me, but I just dropped a stool in your commode that was too much for it to handle, and now I need a plunger to help my fecal matter along on its journey.” And because the stars were against me, the whole “giving it a push” thing didn’t work, and after I scrubbed my hand with scalding hot water three times, I left the bathroom, and asked for the plunger. And again, just like in my youth, I was humiliated.

None of this would have been a problem, if Bryan had warned me about the payload capacity of the toilet; but my cousin Sean is the only person who ever thinks to do that. I was visiting him in California, and he told me, “Hey man, these toilets can’t handle much. You gotta flush before you wipe, ‘cause it can’t handle the shit and the toilet paper.”

Sean is like me when it comes to pinching a loaf. He understands the complexities of taking a crap outside the home. When he lived in Jersey City and worked in New York, he had mapped out all the good public toilets that you could easily access. And to this day, I’ve never met someone who can hold it in longer than him. I’m good at holding it, but he’s the champion.

Okay, so all of this brings me back to Barry’s place, and me unleashing the beast in his toilet, while him and his family were all there. And like I said earlier, this was no average poop. This was a case of the screaming trots, complete with loud farts and horrific, lingering stench. The only positive thing about it was that it didn’t require a lot of toilet paper. But I did use up an entire book of matches trying to mask the odor, and it was still funky as a motherfucker up in there.

There are some people, if you took a shit in their home like the shit I took at Barry’s, they would never let you back in. My friend Anna is like that. She’s a great person, but she can’t stand people using her toilet. You take a crap at her place, and within 24 hours, she replaces the toilet seat. I’m not that bad, but if you stink up my poop palace with your funky dookie, I will admit that I’m just shallow enough to consider never inviting you over again. This is why Barry is a better person than me. I stunk the fuck outta his bathroom—so bad his wife and kids could smell it—and he still had me back over like nothing had happened. That is a true friend. And that’s why I helped him move today.


3 Responses to “Pinching a Loaf Away from Home”

  1. L13 Says:

    that is some funny azz shit mofo
    best post in a minute

    also on a totally unrelated note -after reading all of your mags[except issue #1 which i will pay you 20 dollars for because i am a completionist collector freak] and wasting precious time on this very blog…..
    i can’t watch any movie or dvd anymore without hearing your voice in my head -disecting it and critiquing it

    i have been known to walk out of movies that i find horrendous
    the last time i left a movie theatre in utter disgust was starsky and hutch anyway
    last night i tried to watch 2 dvds neither if which i could finish BECAUSE THEY SUCKED SHIT FROM DICK CHANEY’S ASSHOLE

    xxx-state of the nation and mrs and mrs smiith

    while i realized a long time ago that hollywood had perfected the art of transfering WATERY FOUL SMELLING MEAT SHIT TERDS FROM AIDS INFESTED TRANSVESTITTES into screenplays and finished product-these offending peices of RANCID STOOL insulted my intelligence and disgusted me so much that i am now writing long run on paragraphs due to the confused and dazed moronic state that
    watching these films has put me in

    multi million dollar budgets,name brand actors,hi tech CGI and sets
    none of which amounted to anything even remotely entertaining or memorable

    does brad pitt realize he is working on a dookie when they are filming these butt blasts?

    did o’shea jackson realize for a minute how bad that script was?

    i guess the $$$$$ blind them


  2. L13 Says:

    p fucking s

    you need to create a bad azz mofo version of the 10 commandmants for scrennplay/script writers and tattoo that shit on some of these motherfucker’s foreheads in LA


  3. Chief Scalpum Whiteman Says:

    When I was in high school, one summer I had a job at Newberry’s in Eastport Plaza helping them remodel. The janitor was on vacation one week, so they asked me to help out with the sweeping and mopping on a split shift. One mid-morning I went downstairs to sweep and mop the men’s room. I opened the one toilet stall, and was shocked. There was shit everywhere. All over the toilet. On the walls. On the inside of the door. I was in shock. Who the hell would do this? Was it some bizarre fetish? I quietly hung an out of order sign on the stall door, and went home for lunch. I never returned to work.

    I’ve carried that trauma with me for most of my life now, and as I get older I realize that no one wants to take a shit in public. That’s why you see that nasty shit in public restrooms. The only time you’d even consider using one is when you’re right at the explosive doo-doo point and your other option is shitting yourself. That’s how I’ve learned to accept that horror show in the Newberry’s bathroom. Here, 20 years later, I actually feel sorry for the fellow that shit all over that stall, but I still would’ve hung that sign and slinked away if it were to happen again today. It’s still disgusting as all hell.

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