Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Never trust a Filet O' Fish
My brother is good at a lot of things. He's a referee, a Marine, a world traveler, a politics whore, at one time he could run a mean 440. But one thing he as never been able to demonstrate any sort of prowess is keeping "it" in. The "it" can represent a number of things. For example after trotting halfway down the mountain on the way back from hiking Diamond head in Hawaii his bowels could no longer issue further restraint and we found him minutes later crouched in the weeds - minus a pair of soiled superman underwear that may or may not be there to this day. The 'it' got the better of him that day. Then fast forward years later. After finishing a race he was exhausted,
struggling for breath and near exhaustion when a lady he had made friends with during the race bent down near him to see if he was ok. He threw up in her hair. The Diamond head poo had taken place when he was 9, the hair hoarking was when he was 13.
And let's not get me started on his regrettable proclivities to flatulate at the drop of a hat - a store, a church, a restaurant - he doesn't discriminate. He even used to hold back scratching in church for ransom with his farts. He would purposely sit by me and make me scratch his back. If I refused or grew tired he would whisper "I have one locked in the chamber" and if I continued in my defiance he would then let one go. Thankfully his reign of terror at church was short lived since my parents granted us liberties to sit with friends.
But the latest incident of Trevor not being able to keep "it" in had me laughing until I almost passed out.
He was returning from a date in Atlanta with his wife Mande. They had gone to dinner, visited the Georgia Aquarium and even taken a romantic carriage ride before heading back Kennesaw, which was about a 30 minute drive. A magical night? Probably, but Trev made a horrible mistake earlier that afternoon - he scarfed a Filet O' Fish sandwich from Micki D's and the then downed a steak dinner.
It wasn't long into the drive when the urge to engage in a violent poo hit. But Trev is a soldier. He is not going to let that stop him from a timely arrival home and plus he thought he could make it.
By the time he pulled into the apartment complex he was in bad shape. Mande was on the phone and he grabbed her keys without shutting the car off because "he didn't have time to turn the car off." After bounding up three flights of stairs liberation was so close he could taste it. If he could just get in the door. But the effect of his desperation reared its ugly head and his shaking hands dropped the keys. He bent to pick them up. It was over.
If you want the gory details of the henious event that followed the key retreival as Trevor likes to explain it, which may or may not involved the words 'corn' and 'nuts,' feel free to call him. But I am a lady and will stick to the basics. I will say however that there was a trail of poo from the front door all the way into the bathroom. It was in his shoes, down both legs and all over the toilet.
Mande had walked up stairs, followed the trail and found him still going strong with the door agape on the John.
"Uhh, Becky, I gotta go."
His only explanation said it all "honey, I pooped my pants."
"Ya, no shit."