The Self Mock: My 15 Minutes of Fame

Last weekend my wife’s grandparents had their 500th anniversary (or whatever) and I received direction to drive straight into oblivion so that we could celebrate amongst the cornstalks.  Holy crap that’s a boring drive.  It’s like a four hour Rorschach test with only one blurry green card entitled, “Corn at 75 mph.”  The only thing that broke up the blurry green monotony were the crudely fashioned anti-abortion signs.

Let me be the first to report that the war against abortion has clearly been won in rural America.  Every fencepost reminded me that ‘abortion stops a beating heart’ and ‘it’s a child not a choice’ and finally ‘“The greatest destroyer of peace is abortion because if a mother can kill her own child what is left for me to kill you and you to kill me? There is nothing between.” – Mother Teresa’ – try to read and comprehend that at 75 mph.

So we get there and we hang out.  The kids ride around on ponies and tractors and eventually a lawnmower.  I begin to offer rides in a genuine motorcar that is capable of moving at speeds several times greater than the average tractor.  My offers were declined on the grounds that they were ‘boring’ even after I upped the ante by offering to roll down the windows to allow for ‘refreshing and enjoyable wind-movement’.  I don’t get no regard I tell ya…no esteem neither.

I continued to sit there and watch the day go by.  The kids played and laughed for hours. One of them cried when she regained consciousness after being struck in the side of the head with a boccie ball.  Fortunately it was the red one so the ear-blood blended right in.  People I hardly knew walked up to me and attempted to make small talk.  They generally walked away after a few minutes, shaking their head at just how unpleasant I can be at social functions.  I can only shrug with confusion.  It’s not like I made their kid gay. What?  If not their flaming gay son, what are we supposed to talk about?

The only constant was food.  There were pulled pork sandwiches at lunch and barbecue at dinner.  There was macaroni salad, potato salad, something my wife calls ‘lettuce salad’ (which looks suspiciously like ‘salad’), and all manner of side dishes.  There was homemade ice cream and cookies and brownies.  There was so much food there that I could have been eating something literally every minute. This is not generally a bad thing…until my stomach started to grumble.

We have a mutual friend that doesn’t poop at work.  I love to poop at work. It’s my opinion that getting paid to poop is the new American Dream.  I cannot, however, poop at social gatherings. Despite the fact that I seem to have no problem ruining social functions by saying rude and insensitive shit, I refuse to ruin the social event by taking a dump mere yards away from the potato salad.  I guess I’m just dainty that way.

I hold it for as long as I can, but after a few hours it becomes obvious that I’m going to have to do something to mitigate the situation.  I make some excuse about wanting to see the neighboring towns and take off down the gravel road in the family truckster.  My excretory system begins to spasm in panic as a trail of dust chases behind me like an agrarian comet.

I drive like a madman, chanting the names of roads that I had been on like verbal bread crumbs that would help me get back to the farm.  I roll down the window and wonder why ‘fresh air’ always smells like cow shit.  I see the outline of a small town at about the same time  that it begins to feel like I have a billiard ball on top of my coccyx.  I push the gas pedal to the floor and shift my weight in a futile attempt to relieve some pressure.

Then I see it…my savior. I rejoice at the miracle that is the Casey’s convenience store.  I tear into the lot and hop out of the car.  The pain in my stomach makes me double over and wince.  I wonder if I am going to be able to make it into the store before I crap my pants.  I walk into the place like a penguin, as though bending my knees will somehow cause me to lose my shit, literally.  A teenage girl stared at me quizzically as I hobbled to the bathroom.

I gasped in horror when I got to the restroom to see the door propped open.  The smell of cleaning products invaded my nostrils as I looked down to see a small Mexican woman scrubbing the bottom of the commode.  I whispered to myself, “Oh fuck…” as I turned and hobbled out the door.  My stomach winced in pain and I was forced to stop and regain my composure before I could get back in my car.

I drove down Main St. as the prairie-dogging began.  I knew that I had only seconds until something very bad happened.  It was just after 5 p.m. on Saturday night and the entire fucking town was closed.  I drove past several prime pooping locations:  gas stations, City Hall, the library and even a small hospital – everything was closed.  I considered running into the emergency room…this was, after all, an emergency.

I drove and swore like mad until I saw a dim light in the distance.  The light came closer and a small building came into view.  “Super Valu”, I read to myself.  I thanked the Lord as I threw the car into park and penguined rapidly into the store.  I just might make it after all.  I waddled around the store’s perimeter.  It was your everyday small town grocery store.  There wasn’t much selection and the prices were too high, but the store reflected a kind of pride that you only see in rural America.

I finally broke down and asked a store employee where the bathroom was.  He looked up from his broom and pointed to the corner of the store, “It’s in the back room, over in the back corner.” I thanked the man and began to penguin my way in the direction of his finger.  I had to stop and steady myself for a moment on an onion rack  as I waddled through the produce section.

I must have looked like Wyatt Earp as I pushed through the swinging metal doors.  I was a man with a job to do.  The toilet clanked on the concrete floor as I plopped down on it.  I stared into the cinder block walls as something otherworldly began to shoot out of me.  In reality the whole process probably took about 30 seconds, but it seemed as though the stream of waste would never end.  I shivered as I finally finished up.  The back room no longer smelled damp and musty.  It now smelled like the waste of some strange and mysterious animal.

I turned away in disgust as I pushed the lever that would aid in destroying the evidence.  After a series of terrible choking sounds, the waste finally dropped into the building’s wastewater system.  My sighs of relief were significantly retarded due to a general inability to breathe the polluted air.

I stared with alarm as the water began to fill the bowl. “No!  No!  No!  Fuck!”  I yelled as it appeared as though the water was about to crest over the lip of the toilet and onto the concrete floor.  God smiled upon me as it stopped just short of disaster.  I quickly looked around for a plunger and found nothing.  I thought for a moment about going out into the store and purchasing one.  I considered admitting my heinous crime and begging for mercy.

I looked out the small window in the bathroom and saw that it was getting dark.  I knew that I’d never be able to find the farm again in the dark.  So I said ‘screw it’ and left the toilet clogged.  I walked as nonchalantly as possible over to the coolers at the checkout and grabbed a 20 oz. Diet Mountain Dew and handed it to the guy running the register.  I figured I had ought to buy something, considering the fact that I had just destroyed their toilet.  The guy took the soda, scanned it and handed it back to me with a smile.  He looked down at my blue West Virginia Surf Report shirt and said, “Hey!  The Surf Report!  I love that site!”

“Yeah, me too,” I responded and handed the guy a five.  His ears perked up when he heard my voice.

“Wait a minute…Aren’t you that guy that makes the cartoons on Mockable?  I love those things!”

“Yup, that’s me.  Thanks, man.  I really appreciate it,” I said as he handed me the change.

“Yeah, anytime.  I hope you’ve got more coming,” he said.

“Probably.  I’m sure there’ll be something.  Thanks again,” I responded.  I briskly walked out the door in horror and shame.

That’s right, I have an actual fan in the middle of the corn belt.  Of course I thanked him by clogging the shit out of his toilet and leaving it for someone else to deal with…what else would I do?  In conclusion, I’m really sorry man…really.  Feel free to stop by my house if you’re ever passing by and need to poop…’cause I owe you one.