I didn’t get to take a dump yesterday. Busy. Lazy. Whatever the reason, it never happened. When I woke up this morning, I could feel the log threatening to turtle head its way out of my sphincters. Fortunately for my schedule, and my underwear, I have very strong sphincters.

Part of the problem with my schedule was that I wanted to walk to work today. It’s three miles, uphill. Way better than a stair-master or a treadmill. I get to see the river, the sky, the traffic, the birds, and the dog shit. All the things that make life… well, life.

Walking is great for the bowels. The steady movement loosens the walls of the bowels and lets the shit move around freely. This left my sphincters sending urgent memos to the brain along the lines of, “WTF? You knew you had to go before you left…” Fortunately all that got past the gatekeepers was gas, and in the misty morning of Portland, I never smelled what I dealt — although I may have killed some native species along the way.

I got to my office, took care of some pressing correspondence while ignoring the pressing shit knocking on my asshole. I took care of a client call, and then, headed to the restroom to heed nature's call... about an hour after I got in.

There are the times that you take your time settling onto the toilet and gearing yourself up to releasing the Kraken. Then there are days like today. The shit started ejecting itself from my bowels as soon as the cotton cleared the moon (that would be cotton briefs and… oh just figure it out).

It was one of those movements that left me feeling almost ill with decompression — the sheer volume of solid waste leaving my body caused a drop in blood pressure that made me see visions of unicorns and Neil Patrick Harris. Shrooms have NOTHING on the effects of a shit the size of your forearm leaving your body.

As I got my breath back, which was difficult given the smell in the room, round two hit. That’s the problem with a shit two days in the making — like having royalty from two countries visiting at once, they both need their moment in the sun. The convulsions were painful, but in that, “fuck me harder bitch” kind of pain. I wanted to shout out a safe word, but feeling that log slide into the porcelain bowl just brought me way too much pleasure.

When it was finished and I was finally able to stand, I wiped, for awhile, and then stood up and looked back in the bowl. Like a Tlingit totem pole, one log stood straight up, rising above the waterline. It was surrounded by a sea of industrial waste the would make BP say, “Dude, you gotta do something about that.”

Fortunately my office has an old school toilet — which is to say the flushing power was sufficient to send my satanic offspring off to be processed by someone with a far less fortunate career path than mine. But for the rest of the day my ass twitched and I would sigh thinking, wow, that was a fantastic shit.