The Crappiest Story Ever Told.

Warning. The following story is foul. FOUL. And if you are a pretty girl who isn’t into foul stories, please, don’t read it.

China had done a number on my digestive system. Number two, to be precise, often with number one somehow mixed in. Montezuma apparently wintered in China, and his powerful revenge had made me a shell of my former self. I might as well have simply thrown my food directly in the toilet, it would have saved me the discomfort.

One evening I had made plans to take a young lady out, and so to avoid any potentially embarrassing lower-gut mishaps, I had eaten only plain rice that afternoon.

But my preemptive measures were fruitless, or so I thought, for as soon as I stepped into her apartment I was seized with the leg-sweaty discomfort that I knew all too well.

My linguistic skills suffering along with my body, I blurted out in Chinese, “I’m washhands-room go come back fast we ok and go ok! I’m ok! I’m ok!”

But once astride my porcelain mount, I was surprised to find that rather than being serenaded by the humiliating ass-symphony whose melody I had begun to regard as cliche, I was treated to watery-silence: an alligator slipping into the river, a sunken ship laying at the bottom of the ocean.

I was amazed as I wiped down my blast-zone: finding no trace of post-food, I nearly leapt up from my throne to survey what I had created. Not the bracken swamp that I was used to seeing, but rather two stunning logs, either one from which I could have carved an endtable.

The rice had worked!

With tears of joy/strain still misting my cheeks, I flushed the toilet. The swirling water had about as much effect as would snowmelt trickling over mighty trunks of fallen redwood. “No!” I hissed to myself, “nooo!“

I flushed again, natch.

“Hey are you ok in there?” I heard my date ask though the thin door.

“Haha, I’m wash hands is for the clean hands is sooooo important, you know? Haha, I’m ok! I’m ok!” I coughed back to her.

I stood there for a moment, frozen with thought. Several solutions presented themselves to me, each more implausible than the last. Blame it on someone else? Hide it in the watertank? Throw it in the washing machine¹ and set it to ‘Heavy Duty’?

There was really only one option, try to smash it up in the toilet and hope to the gods of third world plumbing that it would go down. “Dammit!” I whispered, “Dammit dammit dammit!”

I stood there for another ten seconds, contemplating the inevitable. The sound of loud arguing drifted up from the streets below.

The window!

I hadn’t even thought of it, most windows in American buildings don’t open past the first few floors. But sure enough, there it was, an open window, in the bathroom, ten stories up!

I couldn’t… But there was nothing else to do!

I quickly wrapped my hand in about forty layers of toilet paper, and in the best impersonation of a shit flinging mummy I could muster, I heaved the hefty offenders out of the window. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand… PLAP, PLAP! Quickly calculating in my head, I figured that the former-rice packets had blasted the sidewalk at about 697.3 mph on impact. “That,” I thought to myself, “is some fast shit!“

Quickly washing my hands in the bucket of battery acid² that was conveniently sitting by the sink, I said a silent prayer to St. Bonaventure³ and stepped out of the bathroom.

I insisted to my date that Americans are fanatical about hand cleanliness, and that it was to this fanaticism that we can attribute our national greatness. She seemed to buy it.

On our way out of her building we passed what appeared to be two gigantic turds that had impacted the sidewalk at 697.3 mph. My date looked at the devastation, and then at me. “Uh…” I said.

She hid her face with her hands, “Oh my God-ah, I am SO EMBARRASSED!” My back began to sweat. “Chinese people are so dirty!” She shook her head in national self-loathing.

“I… ah…” I felt elated. I threw a furtive Tiger-Woods-air-punch, “Oh well, it’s ok, you know. I mean, China is a poor country, but things will get better.”

She seemed doubtful, “Not when they do barbaric things like this!”

True. Get it together, China!

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¹ Many Chinese apartments have a small washing machine in the bathroom.

² No, not really, it was actually a bucket of molten rock, Ajax, and uranium.

³ Patron Saint of bowel disorders.