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Warning! Offensive Material Follows

Warning – mildly offensive material follows. Proceed with caution.

A symbiotic relationship

There seems to be a symbiotic relationship between the Afghan cleaning crew which takes care of our latrine and my colon. And I’m not the only one! You know how when a couple of women live together their menstrual cycles naturally get in sync. I never understood why, but it happens. Ladies? Can any of you offer an explanation? Well, it seems the 3 guys in our office have begun to “cycle” together too. But by that I mean we all have to crap at the same time, and when would that be? Exactly when the cleaning crew has the latrine building closed for cleaning. How the hell did that happen?

For whatever reason, no matter what time I go to bed, what time I wake up, no matter what I’ve eaten for dinner or the amount of coffee I drink, no matter how hydrated I am or whether or not I’ve been to the gym (I still haven’t) my colon wants to purge between 9:30 & 10am, just when the latrine is closed. Woody & Chip suffer the same condition and we all joke about it. I tried waddling down to the port-a-john at the corner one time with a “baby in the birth canal” when the crew had the latrine closed. It wasn’t pretty. By the time I got to the port-a-john my butt and legs were dripping with sweat. Have you ever smelled the butt sweat you get from holding in a “deuce” for too long – you don’t want to, trust me. I finally reach my destination only to find the SST outside, cleaning it! Mother of God I was gonna die! Never again!

My body wouldn’t wait for them to finish so I started waddling back. It’s approximately 300 meters from my building to the port-a-john and I was in agony. Do you suffer from the phenomenon that the closer you get to a bathroom, the more you have to go? I do all the time, and if I have to drop a deuce, my butthole starts puckerin the closer I get to that commode. If it’s a power crunch, I can forget holding it until my skin reaches the toilet, the colon involuntarily purges with force during the act of undoing my pants and sitting. I’ve had issues…..but not recently.

Anyway, I get over halfway back to the “closed for cleaning” latrine, intent on busting in and stinking up the place, when my colon starts “turtling” (turtling is the horrible action of something trying to poke out – heaven forbid, succeeding – from your anus before you’re prepared). Gasp! Why me God? This isn’t gonna end well. I’ve got two alternatives: keep walking and shit myself or stand there, legs twisted together like a pretzel, beads of sweat all over my forehead, pants slowly becoming darker in the crotch due to the profuse ass sweat soaking through my trousers, all the while trying to look nonchalant like this was natural while I waited for the urge to purge to pass. Could this get any worse? Yes, I guess it could, and it did.

While standing there, staring at a bunch of cigarette butts, the image of the latrine (only 100 meters away) etched in my mind, three young Soldiers come around the corner, cigarettes out, ready to smoke. I had stopped in their smoke pit. Really? After an awkward moment of silence (three guys in uniform quietly studying a bearded stranger in civilian clothes with a pained look on his face who had inadvertently invaded their holy smoking sanctuary), I looked at them and kinda jokingly said, “Can I bum a smoke?” (you know I hate smoking – see update 3). What else could I say? “Excuse me, I’m trying not to shit myself.”

No one really wanted to move, but eventually I got one, lit up and successfully untwisted my legs without the dreaded filling of my shorts that I so hauntingly expected. I concocted some lame excuse for me being there about counting the butts on the ground. I don’t know what planet they were from but the dumbasses seemed to believe me. We chit chatted for a bit, them joking about getting “smoked” (disciplined through excessive push-ups, sit-ups, etc) by their platoon sergeant, me trying to feign interest all the while my butthole clenching tighter and tighter, cringing at the possibility that the wet sweaty feeling in my shorts was more than just butt sweat. It’s happened before.

I threw away half the cigarette, said “thanks for the smoke, nice meeting you, I gotta hit the shitter.” (just saying that word made my colon contract with birth pains) and rushed off to the latrine, my legs locked together from hip to knee, moving only from the knee down (I learned that trick long ago). Squish, squish was all I could think of as I rushed to my destination. I don’t know how, but I made it. But have you ever tried to climb stairs, even one stair, with your knees tied together in unholy matrimony? Take it from me, don’t do it, please.

Oh yeah, you guessed it, that throbbing pucker intensified with each step closer to the door. Wouldn’t it have been a kick in the balls if those bastards still had the place closed? They didn’t, but two of the four stalls were taken – probably by Woody and Chip. I didn’t care. I skooched into the nearest one, didn’t even do the obligatory wipe of the toilet seat. I quickly fumbled with my zipper, (having undone my belt and pulled off my pistol holster on the way to the porcelain throne), simultaneously pulling down my pants, and sitting down.

Sure enough, ole’ turtlehead launched out of its cloister with a roar, making its presence known. I must’ve let out a moan or something because I heard someone giggle. Maybe it was the jaw-clenched chorus of “Shit, shit, shit!” I kept repeating over and over that produced his reaction. I won’t describe what came outta me. It was inhuman and what I had done to my colon was inhumane – fitting I’d say. Best case scenario: I’m okay after the panic subsides and I’ve not crapped myself. Worst case scenario: my pants are soiled and I have bits of intestine dangling underneath me, resting atop the pile of hell that surely has accumulated below. This is what it must feel like to have the fist of an NFL lineman yanked outta your ass (No, I don’t ever want to know).

I was out of breath, feeling like I had just given birth, anally. You’d expect the toilet to clog – it did. You’d expect there to be blood – there wasn’t. The back of my legs were wet down to my knees, but by the grace of Jesus and some seriously strong butt muscles my nuthuggers were only sweaty, not shitty. After what seemed like a lifetime, I cleaned up, returned to my room to change drawers (I didn’t want to develop a rash) and returned to work. Never did find out if either Chip or Woody were the ones giggling in the latrine and I never told anyone about that near accident. One might ask, “Hey dumbass, why didn’t you go to the bathroom sooner?” Well dear readers, my tired old carcass doesn’t always give me fair warning. Sometimes I’ve got no more than a minute to make it to the latrine. I’ve had to leave meetings or risk soiling myself. And no, I’m not suffering from some disease – I’ve been this way my entire life. This, unfortunately, is normal for me. Well, this update was a shade cleaner, but just as personal. Hope you’ve enjoyed. Todd FOB Salerno

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