Jeanette X
Nov 26th, 2010, 11:07 PM
Yes boys and girls, I have another poop story for you. Sit down by the fire allow me to regale you with this tale.
On my way to my Grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving, my lower intestine decided to broadcast the following signal to my brain:
“You need to locate a toilet. Very soon.”
I pulled off the highway into the nearest exit, and began my search. Alas, nothing but farmland stretched before me, and the lower intestine moved to orange alert.
“You REALLY need to find a toilet. Its like, urgent.”
Attempting to contain my panic, I used my GPS to locate the nearest gas station. I pulled into it, my hands clutching the wheel as my lower intestine began to scream:
“You need to find a toilet. RIGHT NOW! I'M NOT KIDDING STOP SCREWING AROUND OR YOU WILL SHIT YOURSELF!"
I sprinted to the door of the Citgo station.
It was closed.
I sprinted to the bathrooms on the side, praying that they were unlocked.
They were pay toilets (what is this, 1978?), and although I had change, the owner(s) of the establishment had decided to park a large car directly in front of them, thus preventing anyone from accessing them whilst the gas station was closed.
I nearly burst into tears. I returned to my car, knowing that I would never be able to make it to the next rest stop.
Then I remembered.
(flashback)
My Dad, to a young Jeanette X who has just gotten use of the car: “Why the hell would you keep an empty coffee can in there?!”
Me: “Because you never know.”
My Dad: “You’re crazy. You should get rid of it.”
I ran to the trunk, removed the empty coffee can, pushed the passenger seat as far back as it would go, placed the coffee can on the floor of the car, and did what I had needed to do so urgently, beating my head against the dashboard in agony from the cramps that were wracking my bowels, and cursing the owners of the Citgo station. Such as my agony, sitting there, my legs cramping, the cold metal rim pressing uncomfortably into my ass-cheeks I even contemplated taking the sealed coffee-can, writing “HAPPY THANKSGIVING” on the lid, and leaving it in front of the gas station door, but I’m not that spiteful.
I called my father once the worst of it subsided and informed him, whist sitting on the (literal) can, in the bluntest possible terms, exactly why I was going to be very late.
This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for the fact that I had newspaper and Quiznos napkins handy, and that I did not listen to my Dad.
Fuck you Citgo. I understand being closed on Thanksgiving, but next time, move the damn car away from the pay toilets.
On my way to my Grandmother’s house for Thanksgiving, my lower intestine decided to broadcast the following signal to my brain:
“You need to locate a toilet. Very soon.”
I pulled off the highway into the nearest exit, and began my search. Alas, nothing but farmland stretched before me, and the lower intestine moved to orange alert.
“You REALLY need to find a toilet. Its like, urgent.”
Attempting to contain my panic, I used my GPS to locate the nearest gas station. I pulled into it, my hands clutching the wheel as my lower intestine began to scream:
“You need to find a toilet. RIGHT NOW! I'M NOT KIDDING STOP SCREWING AROUND OR YOU WILL SHIT YOURSELF!"
I sprinted to the door of the Citgo station.
It was closed.
I sprinted to the bathrooms on the side, praying that they were unlocked.
They were pay toilets (what is this, 1978?), and although I had change, the owner(s) of the establishment had decided to park a large car directly in front of them, thus preventing anyone from accessing them whilst the gas station was closed.
I nearly burst into tears. I returned to my car, knowing that I would never be able to make it to the next rest stop.
Then I remembered.
(flashback)
My Dad, to a young Jeanette X who has just gotten use of the car: “Why the hell would you keep an empty coffee can in there?!”
Me: “Because you never know.”
My Dad: “You’re crazy. You should get rid of it.”
I ran to the trunk, removed the empty coffee can, pushed the passenger seat as far back as it would go, placed the coffee can on the floor of the car, and did what I had needed to do so urgently, beating my head against the dashboard in agony from the cramps that were wracking my bowels, and cursing the owners of the Citgo station. Such as my agony, sitting there, my legs cramping, the cold metal rim pressing uncomfortably into my ass-cheeks I even contemplated taking the sealed coffee-can, writing “HAPPY THANKSGIVING” on the lid, and leaving it in front of the gas station door, but I’m not that spiteful.
I called my father once the worst of it subsided and informed him, whist sitting on the (literal) can, in the bluntest possible terms, exactly why I was going to be very late.
This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for the fact that I had newspaper and Quiznos napkins handy, and that I did not listen to my Dad.
Fuck you Citgo. I understand being closed on Thanksgiving, but next time, move the damn car away from the pay toilets.