How to even start a blog post about this.. Did you ever have a time when you were a kid and you decided to do something, and more than likely there was brainstorming involved, because you never think of shit like this on your own. you have to have someone prompting you, pushing you along on the road to ridiculous. As a matter of fat I’ve had quite a number of times when that happened, but more likely than not I was the one with the idea, and the perpetrator would be someone (anyone) else. But this time I was the perp, and I think it was my ill conceived idea as well.
So I was about maybe eleven years old, or for the sake of round numbers, I’ll say twelve, and me and my younger brother Chuck were in the basement of my parent’s house in the burbs. I realized that I had to take a shit, but didn’t want to be inconvenienced by the trip upstairs to the bathroom. What’s a guy to do? Choices choices choices. Walk one flight of stairs and take care of what you need to, or find a corner and crap on the floor? Well, I wasn’t that disgusting (at that moment) so I figured out the only normal logical alternative. I will find a paper grocery bag (actually I don’t think plastic was really a choice back in the seventies) and I’ll just shit in there.
Anyone who has ‘worked’ with brown paper grocery bags knows that you have to fold down the edges to make them stay open. The fold should be fairly regular, about an inch is optimum, because then you have the maximum capacity for whatever you are storing in there. Let me tell you, if someone would need that capacity for a single dump, that person would probably definitely set a record for the largest single deposit ever made by a human at one sitting. Seriously that would be a lot of shit. I was not going for the record.
So there was logistics to consider. I needed to be hidden, just in case Mom came down the stairs. The only real locations where in the furnace room (way too hot) or in the closet. I chose the closet while Chuck kept watch. Not like I wouldn’t have heard Mom coming down the stairs. She was always very loud when she was coming down the stairs. (Ok, that was wrong to say, but so much of what I write here is wrong to say, so there, I said it)
So then there is the squat. You don’t think about this so much when you sit on a toilet, or when you shit in the woods, but if you are trying to hit a target like a neatly folded brown paper grocery sack, you have to think about your squat and especially your aim. Most certainly very important, especially in a basement closet, where you don’t want to have to explain later to Mom why you are cleaning shit off the concrete closet floor. So Chuck did the alignment as I copped a squat. It’s not easy holding still and copping a squat, while grunting out a deuce, but by god I was determined to do this and do it well. And so it begins.
And suddenly I realize that it is not so easy to poo if you don’t want to pee at the same time. It really is a complex musculature challenge. You don’t have any idea until you try this. It may be like giving the Vulcan “life long and prosper” hand sign. Either you can do it or you can’t. Maybe with practice, like kegel exercises. Anyway it’s tough. A paper bag is unlikely to be water-tight, I mean urine-tight, so I had to really make a serious effort. But I am a champ. I succeed where many other people dare not even consider the possibility. I excel in absurd conquests, most of which never even get press coverage. (like this one) I triumphed people. I shit in a bag in a basement closet with no pee whatsoever. I may be ready for the talk show circuit. (Or maybe “How it’s made” in a bag)
So then there’s step two after doing number two. What to do, with the poo? This like most things never crossed out pre-teen minds. We are in the basement looking at a steaming deuce in a bag and really don’t know where to go from here. The challenge had been raised and met, but the aftermath, well, the aftermath stinks. It is anticlimactic.
After winning the Indy 500, I’m sure the first thought isn’t how are we getting the car back to our garage. Probably the winning driver is so busy drinking the milk, that he (or she) doesn’t even consider the car getting back to the shop. Likewise, glowing in the rewards of a job well done, I hadn’t considered what to do with the finished product.
The trash can in the garage is an obvious solution, but my Mom is like a Sherlock Holmes and Charlie Chan combined. (I’m talking Basil Rathbone, not Robert Downey, Jr as Sherlock. I like RD Jr, but Sherlock Holmes is a cerebral character, not an action hero. What the fuck is up with that new version? I mean what’s next Galileo using a telescope as a ninja fighting stick to beat some sense into the Pope?)
I digress (again) Mom was a detective who investigated the trash. All sorts of clues to what young boys are up to can be found in the trash. This is a note to all the young mothers who are regular readers of this filthy blog. Check the trash. You will learn about your children and what shenanigans they are up to. My mom once dug a jock strap box out of the trash that I had hidden a pair of shitty underwear in. (Apparently that time there where no trash bags around for me to shit in, so I just got a head start in my tighty whities) She made me scrub those tighty whities out in the toilet. That’s just the kind of mom she was.
What did we do with the bag? I think we took it out into the woods and burned it. That was our typical answer to unsolvable problems and the way we hid things from Mom. (Kids who read this filthy blog take note. Avoid the trash. Burn things instead.)
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I know that exact feeling, funny enough I was forced to use a plastic bag today as we had no paper bags. It seems that my roommate takes a shower at the most inconvient time, She is female of course and I am male, so obviously there is not going to be the use the washroom while they shower, anyways, I had to go and no way of holding it (ate something that didn’t agree), lets just say plastic is not a great alternative.