It’s been quite awhile since I shared this story. Buckle up, it’s a long one
TL;DR I fell down a flight of stairs while suffering from gastroenteritis.
Many years ago, I was a broke college dropout, working a dead end job. I had a one bedroom apartment in a not so great part of town. Good news, it was cheap enough that I was able to save some money, bad news, it was a tenement in every sense of the word. The building had a flea infestation, piss poor radiator heat, no a/c, and the shower didn’t drain effectively. I lived on the third floor, there was no elevator, and the stairs were most definitely not up to code. Wooden stairs, some were wider or narrower than others, some were slightly slanted, dangerous on a good day. Put a pin in that, it’s important later.
I was lucky enough to find a small two bedroom ranch that was in my price range, as I ended my lease. I purchased the house, and three days prior to moving I came down with a uniquely bad case of gastroenteritis. I could do nothing but drink Gatorade and I was pissing orange jet fuel out of my butt hole. I was febrile, puking or shitting every 30 minutes, sweating and near delirium. The day where I was supposed to move most of my stuff I was barely functional. I was tremendously lucky that I had a few friends who saw me in such a sorry state, and did most of the work, while I weakly helped where I could.
The next day was meant to get the smaller stuff. Bags of clothes, end tables, boxes of cutlery etc. One of my best friends Tim, came to help, and I was at least able to pitch in. I still felt bad, but my bowels only needed to be emptied every 2-3 hours, the fever had broken, I was at least on the mend.
I was carrying down a Walmart pressboard tv stand on my back like an African tribeswoman carrying water back from the river down the stairs. On any normal day this would not have been a challenge but due to recent circumstances this was tantamount to one of the labors of Hercules.
As I round the last set of stairs, I start to feel like I need to poop again. About six steps from the landing, I’m focused more on clenching my buttcheeks and less on the wibblybibbly stairs I’m going down. I catch my heel on one of the steps, slip, and fall backwards onto my ass.
Upon impact I poop a little bit. The problem starts here. I fell backwards but momentum was still carrying me forwards. So I bounce down to the next step and when I hit, I poop a little more. The tv stand hits the stairs and explodes in a shower of splinters and chunks. I proceed to bounce down the next 5 steps shitting myself a little more with each impact. Finally my feet hit the pavement and I’m pulled to a squatting position.
At this exact moment, the situation is salvageable. My underwear are spent, but everything is still contained. However, I had just been through three days of hell, and my poor tired rectum could not remain closed under the Sisyphean pressure. The entire contents of my bowels, as well as every ounce of pride and dignity I have as man, came streaming out of my asshole. It ran rivers down both my legs, pooled in my shoes, overflowed and created little puddles of liquid feces on the concrete.
Tim hears this chorus of destruction out at the truck, and comes running. He screams “ARE YOU ALRIGHT!?”
“Noooo!” I painfully moan.
“WHAT HAPPENED?!” I hear his feet slap the pavement as he gets closer.
“I shit my pants,” I meekly sob.
He comes barreling around the corner and recoils as he hits the wall of smell. I’m standing there in two fetid swamp water bogs, somewhere in the liminal space between between passing out, and curling into the fetal position and crying. I’m surrounded by pieces of the now destroyed tv stand, as though I’m the living embodiment of chaos, sorrow, pestilence and destruction all rolled up into one fat white boy package.
He looks at me, and says “don’t worry bout all this, go upstairs and clean yourself up.”
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u/soberriggs 8h ago
It’s been quite awhile since I shared this story. Buckle up, it’s a long one
TL;DR I fell down a flight of stairs while suffering from gastroenteritis.
Many years ago, I was a broke college dropout, working a dead end job. I had a one bedroom apartment in a not so great part of town. Good news, it was cheap enough that I was able to save some money, bad news, it was a tenement in every sense of the word. The building had a flea infestation, piss poor radiator heat, no a/c, and the shower didn’t drain effectively. I lived on the third floor, there was no elevator, and the stairs were most definitely not up to code. Wooden stairs, some were wider or narrower than others, some were slightly slanted, dangerous on a good day. Put a pin in that, it’s important later.
I was lucky enough to find a small two bedroom ranch that was in my price range, as I ended my lease. I purchased the house, and three days prior to moving I came down with a uniquely bad case of gastroenteritis. I could do nothing but drink Gatorade and I was pissing orange jet fuel out of my butt hole. I was febrile, puking or shitting every 30 minutes, sweating and near delirium. The day where I was supposed to move most of my stuff I was barely functional. I was tremendously lucky that I had a few friends who saw me in such a sorry state, and did most of the work, while I weakly helped where I could.
The next day was meant to get the smaller stuff. Bags of clothes, end tables, boxes of cutlery etc. One of my best friends Tim, came to help, and I was at least able to pitch in. I still felt bad, but my bowels only needed to be emptied every 2-3 hours, the fever had broken, I was at least on the mend.
I was carrying down a Walmart pressboard tv stand on my back like an African tribeswoman carrying water back from the river down the stairs. On any normal day this would not have been a challenge but due to recent circumstances this was tantamount to one of the labors of Hercules.
As I round the last set of stairs, I start to feel like I need to poop again. About six steps from the landing, I’m focused more on clenching my buttcheeks and less on the wibblybibbly stairs I’m going down. I catch my heel on one of the steps, slip, and fall backwards onto my ass.
Upon impact I poop a little bit. The problem starts here. I fell backwards but momentum was still carrying me forwards. So I bounce down to the next step and when I hit, I poop a little more. The tv stand hits the stairs and explodes in a shower of splinters and chunks. I proceed to bounce down the next 5 steps shitting myself a little more with each impact. Finally my feet hit the pavement and I’m pulled to a squatting position.
At this exact moment, the situation is salvageable. My underwear are spent, but everything is still contained. However, I had just been through three days of hell, and my poor tired rectum could not remain closed under the Sisyphean pressure. The entire contents of my bowels, as well as every ounce of pride and dignity I have as man, came streaming out of my asshole. It ran rivers down both my legs, pooled in my shoes, overflowed and created little puddles of liquid feces on the concrete.
Tim hears this chorus of destruction out at the truck, and comes running. He screams “ARE YOU ALRIGHT!?”
“Noooo!” I painfully moan.
“WHAT HAPPENED?!” I hear his feet slap the pavement as he gets closer.
“I shit my pants,” I meekly sob.
He comes barreling around the corner and recoils as he hits the wall of smell. I’m standing there in two fetid swamp water bogs, somewhere in the liminal space between between passing out, and curling into the fetal position and crying. I’m surrounded by pieces of the now destroyed tv stand, as though I’m the living embodiment of chaos, sorrow, pestilence and destruction all rolled up into one fat white boy package.
He looks at me, and says “don’t worry bout all this, go upstairs and clean yourself up.”
It was a very quiet trip to my new home.