The following account is a true story. Apart from a few friends, I have never shared it, but the time has come for me to fess up. My pain and turmoil should not ever be faced by another human being, so hopefully you can take away an important lesson from my suffering.
The year was 2010, and it was a cold November evening — the night of Thanksgiving, to be exact. Like millions of others, I had just celebrated Europeans journeying to the Americas to pillage the land and take over the continent by force, all whilst filing my stomach to the brim. The gravy and stuffing swiftly washed away my colonialist guilt. The location was Maryland, specifically, a quiet suburb 30 minutes outside of Washington DC. I was restless, and an overwhelming urge to see naked women came over me, as it often does. I called my friend (who shall not be named) and asked her if she wanted to go to Stadium; one of DC’s best strip clubs. She obliged, so I borrowed my brother’s car and picked her up from Silver Spring.
I had heard of this sacred palace of naked women on countless occasions, and decided it was time for me to make the pilgrimage. Rumors of hot wings the size of ostrich legs and women so beautiful that it would be difficult not to propose marriage filled my mind — I had to go see for myself. When we entered the temple, all of my hopes were immediately confirmed: flowing locks, g-strings the size of uncooked angel hair pasta, perfect breasts that dared you to touch, and rear ends that looked softer than baby thighs. Was this the same place that radicals ended up in after taking their lives in suicide bombings? Had I died and reached Nirvana? So many questions swirled in my head, but I held back the tears of joy as I was whisked away by a scantily clad woman to have a “conversation.”
Loud bass from the thumping rap music shook the floor. Sparklers atop alcoholic bottles shined brighter than the North Star. Talented women performed athletic moves with legs spread whilst descending from the ceiling. Crisp dollar bills were hurled through the air, creating a scene not unlike snow falling on Christmas day. It was magical. After a few drinks and ridding myself of some finances, I sat back with a smile and thought nothing could ruin this night. But then, as if from nowhere, trouble arose — a rumble in my stomach.
Had the turkey failed me? Perhaps it was the green bean casserole? I quickly came to my senses and the fantasy was over. There was no possible way on Earth I was using the toilet in a club for a number two, as that act was only reserved for molesters and terrorists. I found my friend and told her it was time to go. No excuses. We said our goodbyes to our new friends, and briskly walked to the car. She undoubtedly had questions, but kindly went along with my hurriedness. More rumbling. I prayed for forgiveness from the doodoo gods and repented my wicked ways. I just wanted a chance to reach a clean bathroom so I could do the deed in peace whilst playing Angry Birds.
I screeched around corners and broke the speed limit to get my friend to her abode. Dare I ask her to use her toilet and run the risk of replicating Hiroshima all over her pristine bathroom? No. I had to get back to the safety of my brother’s house.
Bbbbrrrrrdfjgfmlerkleshmhmmmm, said my stomach. Everything slowed down around me… “Daaapooo, are you okaaaaaay?” she asked through my blurred vision. I could feel my heart beating. Blinks took 3 seconds. Cars doing 50mph seemed to crawl past at a snail’s pace. I looked around for a hotel — nothing. Was I really going to shit myself in the car? As I sat next to an attractive woman? I said to myself that this was not my destiny and the world had greater plans for me yet. I quickly stopped the car at a green light, unbuckled my seat belt and looked around the car for toilet paper… nothing. No tissue, no newspaper. With a bit of searching, however, something finally went my way. I found my nephew’s very last diaper tucked away behind the front passenger seat. I grabbed it and got out of the vehicle as I told my friend to take the wheel and park up.
In shock, she asked where I was going, to which I replied “to take a shit!”
I don’t remember the street, but there are some buildings in the DC area that have an exterior door to their basement floor. If you’ve never seen one yourself, it enables one to walk down steps to be below ground level while still very much outside in the elements. I rushed to a private clubhouse and made sure it was unoccupied, raced down the steps, unfastened my belt, pulled down my jeans, squatted, and right there on the cold concrete I lightened my load. I felt disgusting. But that being said, there was something cavemanly and alpha-ish about shitting outside and I felt I was one with nature (if nature could be described as an urban slab outside a three story building).
I had to make sure I was quiet as passerby walked around above me. One rumbling sound and all they would have to do is look down to see a freezing cold, well-dressed black man with wavy hair looking up at them in confusion as he shat all over someones property.
Thankfully, that did not occur.
The diaper was a lifesaver, and I used it to my full advantage after I had finished what my body intended. I walked back to the car in shame. She was seated there with a consoling look in her eyes, and asked if I was alright. I didn’t want to talk about it. I informed her that if the events of that night ever escaped the two of us, I would undoubtedly be paying her a visit.
As to the clubhouse owner, if you’re reading this, I am truly sorry. Please forgive me for my defecation, as it was not done in malice. Life threw me a curveball, and I had to react. What would you have done? Surely my actions can be justified.
The doodoo gods tested me, then spared me. They saw my quick thinking and wit did not deserve such shame and I escaped from the trenches unscathed. The moral of the story, of course, always keep toilet paper in the car.