Not a Damn Thing

Ok I’ve been surfing the internet like a mad woman lately, it’s like time has stood still. I am crawling across the desert dying of boredom and the great big amusement park mirage in the distance keeps getting further away (yet strangely half naked gyrating Pakistani sandwich men get closer). I have also discovered that my new favorite snack is the culprit giving me the runs…Hot spicy wing and bleu cheezit twisters. It was day number three after I had loaded my grubby little paws with these and gnawing away happily when I suddenly found myself going into code brown (my new ER-esque like phrase for the need to go #2 or explode and die). Now this was particularly unfortunate for me because you know we’re kind of in the middle of the holy month of Ramadan (which has become kind of like a Middle Eastern revision of Hawaii’s Kill A Haole Day except its kill all Americans and its more like 30 days) and I lack the necessary equipment to send out the cease fire while I take a crap. Now I’ve heard of running for you life, but having the runs for your life? No, not really feeling like going to see Allah in a port o john, can I take a rain check Mr. Terrorist bastard? I sat hunched over and suddenly it came to me and my fist curled and I cursed the bleu cheesy twister gods. Speaking of the runs, I went to the DFAC the other day and since I prefer to stay in my big cement building during the nightly activities of Mr. Bombing terrorist man I usually emerge during the daylight hours frantically doing the Pee Pee dance. So I get to the DFAC and decide that there’s no way I could possibly enjoy my breakfast unless I released the spirit of 8 diet cokes to the great port o john in the sky. There were 8 choices in front of me. Behind door number 1 was no toilet paper, door number 2 had plenty of toilet paper but it covered the floors, seat and seemed to be everywhere but on any type of surface that I would consider connecting with my nether regions, 3-6 had decidedly suspicious liquids on both the floor and seats (come on guys I can’t even hover if you pee all over the seats), door number seven had sort of a combination of doors 2 and 3-6 so I’m not quite sure what made me even open door number 8. Maybe it was morbid curiosity, maybe it was because I had already checked every other door, maybe I just like to be punished; so I found myself unable to resist (you sick b*tch). Somewhere the bleu cheesy Gods were rolling around laughing as I opened this door and laid eyes upon their latest victim. Some a*shole had taken a big fat orange (ok Cosmo, orange is not, and never will be the new pink) dump. This would have been fine, except whoever it was must have had his butt cheeks invaded by the ghost of Van Gogh because actually crapping inside the toilet was apparently just not enough of an artistic statement. No this person had instead chosen to unload just to the left of the hole actually designed for his contribution to the world. It was piled up in kind of a mosque like shape. One might think I stood there staring at it for some time due to the painful details that I remember but honestly I only took one look but it burned itself into my memory and has haunted me every minute of every hour since. I slammed the door in disgust and turned around to the amused look of three soldiers and two sandwich men who had been eyeballing my progress. I hesitated trying to think of an angle that would make door number 1 work for me, but I have a strict anti drip dry policy and in the end I couldn’t find myself equal to the task of hovering that long, I was weak from holding it and hunger. I danced the pee pee dance all the way through breakfast…