My Poolitical Aide
"Hello? Are you OK?" The muffled voice asked through the heavy wooden door. "Are you alright in there?"
"Yes," I managed to spit out in a voice that, to me, was satisfactorily calm and disguised, just as another burst of liquid escaped my hind quarters. As I have previously established in my other story, I value privacy when I poop, and public restrooms are not the ideal place to get it. However, there I was, locked inside a public bathroom in a Starbucks in Washington, DC, while my friends waited patiently outside on the sidewalk. We were at Jon Stewart's and Stephen Colbert's "Rally To Restore Sanity and/or Fear" and they were scoping out the scene in the streets.
This voice that was calling out was foreign to me. I had as little an idea of who the person behind it was as this person did of me. I checked my watch – one in the afternoon. "Dammit," I thought to myself, "I gotta’ get a move on."
Allow me to rewind. My friends had been planning on going to the rally since it had been announced, and I had decided the night before to go along for the ride – and because I hate FOX News and Glenn Beck. At nine a.m. we were packed and ready to hit the road. The car was full of snacks, drinks, and some illicit substances. We were all excited and enthusiastic as it was also the day before Halloween. Our plan was to drive down to DC, stay the night at George Washington University in a friend’s house, attend the rally in the morning, and drive up in time for the Halloween dance at school.
Before any major traveling, I like to relieve my bowels of any passengers that may or may not be trying to hitch a ride. In this way, I am cautious. This procedure usually occurs every day in the morning right when I wake up; this is why I call myself Dailydeuce. On this particular morning, however, I awoke at such an early hour that I had neither the time nor the desire to follow this procedure. Furthermore, when we got to DC I still had no desire to dump. I should explain that I sometimes have travel anxiety, which causes my bowels to slow to a standstill for a while, and this was just such an occasion.
The night was uneventful. We crashed a major house party, but it was broken up by police literally ten minutes after our arrival. Accepting defeat, my friends and I decided to go to bed early; after all, we could not wait to see the rally. The next morning I awoke again too early to perform my procedure (and I did not want to shit up the girl's house with whom we were staying). As we were heading toward the rally at nine a.m. I knew that something would have to give.
We parked just outside of DC. Our plan was to hop on a train into the city and get to the rally on foot, take the train back to where we parked the car when we wanted to leave, and avoid traffic. As we walked into the station I felt murmurs of what was to come from my stomach. I have established in my previous story that I am an experienced artist in the field of diarrhea and I know that what begins must sooner or later come to fruition. I looked around and did not see any bathrooms. “Fuck it,” I thought to myself as I bought my ticket, “the murmurs aren't too strong right now...I can make it.”
Our train was running late. At this point my stomach was in full revolt. I decided to go look for a bathroom. I must be the luckiest guy in the universe – the bathroom was under construction and was locked. I looked for the Women's bathroom but then I heard the train. I ran up to the tracks and met up with my friends on board.
When we arrived in DC, I informed my friends of my predicament and told them that a bathroom was a must. One of them, seeing the pained expression on my face, agreed to come with me to find a place with a bathroom. DC was packed. There looked to be half a million people in the streets. Every single place we went had either no bathroom or a line that extended outside the building. With panic setting in I settled on a Starbuck’s. As I entered, I noted that the line was long. (I am not able to remember exactly how long it was because my mind was otherwise preoccupied.) I looked around me, out to the street, and back at the line. In the back of my mind I began weighing my options: “If I walk out to the sidewalk, I might be able to relieve myself without anyone noticing...No, bad idea...Well, I don't see any police around...No, that's too embarrassing.”
As I considered the consequences of letting loose in public, my mind flitted through headlines: “Pooper at Political Rally” or “Boy Dumps on Jon Stewart's Parade”.
“Are you OK, dear?” a voice asked me from behind. I turned around gingerly and saw an old woman looking at me. She was a few places ahead of me in the line.
“To be honest...not at all. I feel sick,” I replied. This has been an excuse I have used in the past in order to deflect people from realizing that I in fact have diarrhea. It had never failed me in the past and by the looks of this kind lady's face, it hit its mark yet again.
“Here, come in front of me,” she said. “Go on, it’s alright.” There I was, within reach of the Promised Land. The couple in front of me turned around and noticed my plight. They too allowed me to pass by. Within a matter of two minutes that felt like two hours, I was at my destination. I opened the door, closed it behind me, and bolted it shut.
As soon as my warm cheeks hit the cool porcelain seat, a strong jet of liquid burst forth from between my hind quarters. I looked between my legs to investigate the damage. I can only liken it to a murder scene that one would see in the show Dexter; bits were splattered literally all up the bowl.
Another jet hit the water with the force of a bathtub filling up with water. There was a sickly feel to the whole thing as it escaped my body. I was nauseated with the knowledge that there were at least a solid five gallons of this stuff to unload at a steady pace. I removed my shirt (as I have mentioned, I often enjoy such activities while in the throes of it). Beads of sweat began pouring down my forehead. I felt like a balloon filled with water that had its opening stretched by a car jack to release its contents faster.
A considerable smell began to fester in the room. I wondered to myself if I was in fact bleeding, but another inspection of the solid brown water put my mind at ease. I did notice one unusual thing, however. Usually when I have diarrhea the water keeps its consistency and just turns brown. This water had congealed and reminded me of a much more viscous brown Jello. I had so much in me that it began to soak up the water and form a mold of the toilet. I contemplated briefly the ability of the toilet to flush such a beast before my mind turned to a more pressing point: To think that I had narrowly escaped releasing in the streets!
This brings us back to the beginning of my tale, with somebody knocking on the door asking if I was OK.
Luckily for me, this voice was my only visitor while I struggled to let loose possibly the most painful dumping of my life. When I finally finished, and the flush worked, I walked out with pride. The line had recycled and I did not recognize anyone in it. I knew they were thinking the same thing: “Well I didn't see him go in...” I knew that they knew that I had been in the bathroom for quite some time, but I did not care. I had proved that no matter how dire a situation, my anus can handle it. I had mastered the political poop.