Is It Normal For A Grown Man To Shit Himself?

Throughout history, there have been moments that have redefined the boundaries of what the human race understands to be our species limitations.  Acts of valor, athleticism, and unthinkable bursts of superhuman strength that have shattered the glass ceiling of what we believed to be the imposed difference between reality and fable.  One man single-handedly killing fifty Nazis, flying through the air at bird like heights and dunking over the competition, or pulling a truck with nothing but a penis.  Regardless of the arena, there have always been extraordinary people accomplishing extra-ordinary things.  Solidifying their legacy and carving out a place in time to forever be remembered.

This is not one of those occasions.

In fact, this is the exact opposite of one of those occasions.  The only reason those occasions are even being referenced in this story is because they served as the failed motivational material during my own battle of inner personal strength.  Which if you couldn’t tell by the title of the post, I fucking FAILED!

It was a hot and muggy night in the small town of Santa Marta, Colombia.  We had been on the road for only a couple of weeks and the digestive transition into the local cousin was still in its testing stages.  We had been keeping ourselves skinny by cooking our own meals in the hostel.  The complex and tantalizing recipes were comprised of chopped up potatoes and vegetables or spaghetti on occasion, you know, to mix it up.  All meals were accompanied by a dousing of stolen butter or oil (what ever was available in the community kitchen at the time) and a large portion of hot sauce for choking down purposes.

I should preface the story by making my love for hot sauce fully understood.  My serving of hot sauce exceeds that of three average men combined.  So when I say a large portion of hot sauce, I mean holy-shit is there even any fucking food hiding under that puddle large portion of hot sauce (Side note:  I once kept a tally of the amount of Sriracha sauce I consumed over a one year period.  It totaled around six gallons.  That means my shit was the color of blood for over twelve months and what I considered a “normal” bowel movement would send most running straight to the emergency room.

I digress.

We had tried a few restaurants since arriving in country.  But at our price point the meals didn’t provide much more satisfaction then our own “home cooking”.  They usually consisted of a meat (of your choice) that appears to have been run over by a truck, some french fries that have been cooked in four week old oil, and a single four inch by four inch piece of welted lettuce.  Between our cooking and their cooking, my poor stomach was on the verge of implosion (or rather explosion, as the title of the story eludes to).

The meal out was a big deal for us.  This would be the first meal out that we completely disregarded our daily budget (an impulse we quickly turned into routine).  As with any celebratory occasion, a well lubricated state of mind was a necessity.  The pre-drinks of rum carried us right into the arms of several beers and a bottle of wine at the restaurant.  Three rounds and a bottle of wine before a food menu was ever even opened.

Once we did eat, we treated the meal like it was our last and made sure we left the restaurant feeling like a it was Thanksgiving.

Not wanting to miss out on an opportunity to completely overindulge, we had the taxi stop in front of a mall that was close to our hostel to grab some ice cream.

Fatty said what?

Uh, what?

I had made it about five steps from the curb when my stomach did a round house kick to my asshole.

It caught my asshole completely off guard.  But thankfully, failed to deliver a knock out blow.  Pun intended.

Needless to say, my asshole was stunned.  He was looking for his corner, hoping the round was over, just trying his best not to take another crippling blow, that would surely knock him out.

The blood left my face as the reality of the situation smothered my buzz and created a small amount of panic.  I did a quick mental inspection of the severity of the situation.

I didn’t take a shit this morning. . . . hmmm. . . .   That means things are pretty backed up. Last night was spaghetti. . . . . that means industrial amounts of hot sauce is mixing around, lubing the sides of my stomach like a fucking bobsled track. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  and that big ass meal I just shoved down my fat face is the fucking Jamaicans from Cool Runnings. . . . The Jamaicans crash man!  The Fucking Jamaicans Crash! 

I exhaled a short breath of determination, balled my hands into two tightly clenched fists, squeezed my asshole harder than a pedophile walking the yard on his first day in prison, and made my way toward the mall.  Thankfully I was familiar with its layout and knew exactly where the closest bathroom was located.

See, look at the positive.  You know where you are going.  You know where you are going and your close.  Four football fields?  Maybe five?  You can do this! . . . . you CAN do this!!  You . . . . can. . . . hopefully . . . . hope, hope, hopefully fucking. . . . .  do this? 

I made it half way to the mall entrance when I had to make my first pit stop. The motion of walking was causing my stomach to become more unsettled.  I came to a halt and simultaneously squeezed my asshole with every ounce of energy my body possessed.

I did a little shuffle / wobble step, as I tried to keep my guts lodged next to my heart while again making my way toward the mall.  My lips pursed, as the realization that the battle was just beginning caused a slight relaxation of defeat to overcome me.

(Gurgle gurgle gurgle)


I launched into brisk and robotic style walk toward the mall entrance.  I must have looked like a North Korean Soldier marching in fast forward.  I even carried the same look of despair and submission, causing my eyes to become glazed and distant.

I made it to the door and I leaped toward the handle like a fat kid dashing for candy at a parade.  The excessive force I used to open the door almost caused it to smack against the building.  My pace quickened as my hand subconsciously made its way to my ass hole.  The childish cup of the outside of my pants somehow strengthening my sphincters ability to maintain its watertight hold.  I tried to distract myself as I stormed toward the food court.

Just don’t think about it.  It is mind over matter.  You don’t think about it.  Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think.  There is not a massive shit about to burst out of your guts in the middle of the fucking mall.  You are not a grown man who is about to shit his pants.  I will not shit my pants, I will NOT shit my pants, I WILL NOT SHIT MY PANTS!!!

. . . . . . . . . . . Oh fuck. . . . . I might shit my pants. . . . . . . . no,no,no,no. . . . . oh fuck………………………..maybe? 

Another painful pause and wincing look of distress as I tried to keep from dumping a gallon of shit down the side of my leg onto the mall floor.  I squeezed my ass with every ounce of energy my body possessed.  I could have turned coal into fucking diamonds I was squeezing so hard!

The pressure that was being placed on my inner thighs was causing a small collection of sweat to congregate in my ass crack and create a warm foreshadowing for what now seemed to be the inevitable conclusion to this nightmare.

Men have lifted cars off of children, been shot several times but still charged the enemy, we have survived beatings, starvation, run marathons.  If the body and the mind are capable of such amazing feats, then surely, fucking SURELY it can enable me to make it the last hundred-fucking-yards to the mother-fucking-bathroom!

I frantically charged into men’s room located at the corner of the food court. My bewildered eyes darted around the room until I finally found an open stall.  I shuffled in, locked the door, and scrambled to unbutton my pants. . . . . .

I have replayed what happened next a million times.  Analyzing, scrutinizing, judging. Wondering why oh fucking why did this happen?

Now that I am over a year removed from the situation I can say with full confidence the exact moment, the exact action, the exact point where I failed myself so God-Damn HORRIBLY!

It was the transition.


A poorly executed transition.

The transition of asshole clench to ass cheek clench.

In hindsight, I don’t even know why I made the move?

Maybe it was a lapse in judgement brought on by the high stress situation?  The fact that no matter how long you have been holding it, your body just seems to know when your close to the bathroom and insists on shocking you with its final alarm.

DEFCON 1 is here bitch, the world is ending alarm.

It was the transition.

The release.

The relaxation of the asshole and squeeze of the ass cheeks that caused it to happen.

The shit came, and it came with a force.

The clenching of the ass cheeks caused it flow out like water from a hose when a thumb is placed over the opening.  It-went-E-V-E-R-Y-W-H-E-R-E!  Running down both legs, into my shorts, the back of the toilet, the floor, the wall.  Yeah, that’s right. The mother fucking wall!

I was shocked.

This is impossible.  This just doesn’t happen.  This is not real.  This is not real.  This is not-fucking-real!

That is when the smell smacked me with almost as much force as I delivered to the back of the wall with my hot sauce propelled excrement.

Oh fuck!  This is real!  This is real!  This is real . . . . This is real and now I have to deal with it.  This is real, and now, now I have to deal with it. Deal with it. . . deal with it. . . . deal with it. 

Lets do a quick analysis of what is going on.  I have shit myself.  I have shit myself in a very public place.  I have shit myself in a very public place and escaping from here unnoticed is impossible.  Ok. . . . at least I made it to the concealment of the stall.  I can do my best to organize myself here and then make a run for it.  Alright, I have a plan.  I just need to clean myself up as much as possible.  

Toilet paper, toilet paper, just need some . . . . . . . . toilet. . . . . . . . paper? 

For those of you that are not familiar with public toilets in Colombia, they have an interesting system in place to preserve the amount of toilet paper people use in a public restroom.  They place a large dispenser in the main area of the bathroom next to the sinks.  You simply grab the amount of toilet paper you think you will use on your way into the stall.  Something I had clearly neglected to notice in my mad dash for the stall.

I have no toilet paper, no socks (as I was in flip-flops) and my legs and shorts are covered in shit.  I need my shirt to obscure a small part of my now brown shorts and I have no toilet paper.

I – have – no – toilet – paper. . . . 

I made a slow turn to my left and my face contorted with a look of disgust.

There is another attribute to toilets in Colombia you first world readers might not be aware of.  They don’t flush their toilet paper, they toss it in a basket next to the toilet.

This is not happening.  This is . . . . is . . . . is . . . . is not happening.

I released a breath of self-pity and slowly extended my had down to the full basket of used toilet paper.  I slowly pulled at a piece of used paper from the basket to inspect it.

Thankfully Colombians seem to be better planners than myself and use excessive amounts of shit paper when tending to their backside.

One careful whip turned into two, two into three, and then I turned my pity party into a determined mission.  I became the terminator.  I no longer had any feelings about the situation, I was simply doing what must be done.  My speed increased as I skillfully rifled through the shit basket.  Selecting pieces of used toilet paper, deciding what part of my body and shorts would benefit the most.


Grab, wipe, toss, grab, wipe, toss, grab wipe, and toss. . . .

I was making progress, I was feeling like I might be able to get somewhat clean enough to make a mad dash without EVERYONE realizing why I was running.

Just a quick flush of the toilet to make some more room for my used, used, toilet paper.

And. . . . . . . hmmmmmm. . . . . . . .

That’s when it hit me.  I am taking used toilet paper from the used toilet paper bin.  I am using that used toilet paper again and then putting it in the toilet.  As soon as I flushed it I knew I was fucked.

Maybe, maybe, maybe?

I remember plugging the toilet when I was a kid.  It usually took two flushes to get the water to spill out over the bowl.  Surely fate has fucked me hard enough in this situation.  I must have the grace of the God’s over looking me, allowing this toilet to not to over flow.





And then it happened.  It more than just “happened”.

The water began to spill over the rim of the toilet bowl at a rapid pace.  It was a matter of seconds before I was standing in a puddle of flowing water.  I watched in horror as it quickly made its way out of my stall.  Creating an obvious trail of perpetration to my destroyed stall of humiliation.

I actually let out a small laugh.

I was shocked at the actual amount of water that was being dumped onto the floor.

I chuckled again.

This entire situation is . . . . crazy.  This does not happen in real life.

It was clear that my time for cleaning up had come to an end.  I can no loner hide out in the stall when Niagara Falls is re-routing its self out of my toilet.  I hiked my still-covered-in-shit-shorts up around my waist.  I slowly opened the stall door to face my public.

A janitor stood in the middle of the bathroom floor, his mop and bucket in hand, his eyes wide in disbelief.  Water was wrapping around is stagnant feet.  Clearly locked into place by what he now perceived as HIS worse fucking day ever!

Even in my disorientated state of emergency, I was still empathetic to what awaited him in my stall. . . and now the entire bathroom floor.  I actually reached my hand out, as if to take the mop and assist with this “shitty situation”.  His expression contorted even more as he watched my face go from concern (hand out), to the realization I have to fucking bounce, now!

My hand quickly moved away from the mop like a mean uncle ditching out on a high five with his retarded nephew.  Too slow Joe!!!! Or Jose!?  Carlos. . . .?

With that, I was fucking gone.  Channeling my inner Usain Bolt as I sprinted for the exit and the cover of night.

I barely had breath enough to give a soft shout to Sally.

“Sally!. . . . . Sally!. . . . We’re fucking going!”

As I pointed to the exit, not stopping to see if she understood.  I assumed that if I just continued to run out, she would eventually follow me.  I scrambled my way across the street and hideout under a tree.  When she finally caught up to me she began to ask what was going on?

“What . . . . . ?”

Her head cocked back quickly as she caught a whiff of my soiled shorts. . . and legs. . . and flip-flops.

Before she could even finish her question I cut her off with a stern look.

“The fucking worst”

“The fucking worst thing that has ever happened to me”

“That. . . . . is what happened”

Locked Up Abroad

The build up to the Full Moon Party turned from a burning camp fire of anticipation into an uncontrollable wildfire that would take collaborative efforts of both city and state officials to contain.  Evacuations were necessary. . .

We had managed to find a comfortable spot on the giant wood balcony of Mushroom Mountain (or was it Mellow Mountain)? For the purposes of this story, both names are suitable and may be interchanged.  The weathered wood platform stretched out over the ocean at what felt like skyscraper heights.  The tables reduced to mere inches from the floor with worn rugs and old cushions provided to absorb your tired body.  The only light that was provided derived from the almost full moon and countless black lights that were strategically placed throughout the bar.  With mind-blowing, time absorbing, black light enhanced painted pictures placed directly below them.  The thumping techno music was loud enough to reverberate throughout your entire body and excuse any complications that might arise from language barriers.

Chips?  . . . . . Chips?  Oh. . . . you mean fries!  Fuck yeah I want some fries! 

But quiet enough to ensure the illustrated commentary about the significance of life could reach your melting brain cells.  Giving you the opportunity to smile and shake your head in agreement.  While wondering just how in the fuck people like this survived in regular society.

We had been on the island for only five hours before we decided to make the journey through the thick, black, night, to the mystical structure that overlooked Haad Rin Bay.  The journey alone was enough to detour most party-goers.  As you left the main strip of the bay, the silence of the night gave a sobering realization to the madness that you left behind.  The competing music from the string of bars that lined the beach fades into a quite and singular dull thumping sound, before subsiding all together.  The journey is was only further complicated when you reach the base of the cliff that serves as the foundation for the memorizing lighted structure above.  Various sets of unorganized rock steps lead you up to one of two bars (of the same establishment).  The lower bar being left for the faint of heart.  While the rewards of completing the trek to the upper bar was enough to ensure our return each of the following nights.

The full moon gods must have been shinning down on us as we situated ourselves onto an empty space on the floor.  It was only a matter of a few Jack and Cokes before we were officially welcomed with the burning smell of road kill.  Small talk was exchanged and I quickly directed the conversation toward the correct individual to speak with about scoring my own welcoming incense.  Coincidentally the middle-aged women that had befriended us happened to be the girlfriend of one of the Thai bar constitutes.  She ducked away behind the bar and returned moments later with more than enough supplies to sustain the average traveler a week of recreational use.

It was gone that night.

Once my generosity was known, we quickly became the center of attention.  Several other backpackers gathered around our table and the constant smoke arising from our location was enough to induce an introduction from the provider himself.  Who clearly knew how to identify a cash cow investment.

Two Australian travelers that were close to our age returned from the bar with milkshake type concoctions and received several taunting remarks from my friend and I.  The sarcastic comments about ordering a “bitch drink” quickly subsided when it was announced that these “bitch drinks” contained high levels of mushrooms and only cost around $4 each.  Moments later an icy cream drink was in the hands of everyone on the deck.  The party carried on well through the night and into the next morning.

We quickly discovered that the days were meant for sleep, the evenings for food and planning (flyers passed out to travelers about the evenings happenings: waterfall party, jungle party, etc) and the nights were meant to get completely fucked out of your head. Thankfully I had a matured childhood and was already well acquainted with this goal and rarely caught off my game.  I wouldn’t rank myself as an elite (Ozzy osbourne), but I definitely have more than just participation medals hanging from my wall.


Thus, the nights continued much in the same manner as the first occurred.  To the mountain, the jungle, the waterfall, and ultimately back to the mountain.  The fruits of our luck not squandered, but rather shared with virtually everyone who crossed our path.  A simple request for a lighter or some papers, followed up with an inquiry.

“You know how to roll?”

“I got weed, if you can roll it, you can smoke it.”

The fact is my rolling abilities at the time were about average (much improved since) but my laziness and enjoyment of sharing have been constant variables in my life.  It was also entertaining to see the pros do it with one hand, in less than two minutes, while maintaining conversation.  Even more entertaining to watch was the desperate amateur. Who stumbled through three papers and half of the weed I provided them.   While fighting back beads of frustrated induced sweat.  All the while ensuring me that they knew what they were doing, but clearly just desperate to smoke some free weed.  It was this generosity that I firmly believe kept me from spending time in a Thai prison for possession.

Four days of constant smoking and four nights of multiple mushroom shakes was enough to cause confusion when forced to look at that stranger in the mirror.

This rare occurrence would find me staring into the eyes of the very same weirdo I so easily dismissed before the 96 hour mushroom binge. The one who told me about dropping out of the grind, the evil of government, and the importance of keeping your mind free (fucked beyond belief).

My eyes widened as a smile began to form at the corners of my mouth.  I reached out and placed all of my finger tips to the finger tips of the stranger and I knew that together we would get through this insane attempt to escape reality.  Or was this an attempt to survive it?  (That’s deep man)

We had watched as the crowds grew from 100’s of people to 1000’s.  Two boats a day brought the new energy of unfamiliar and overexcited (over-intoxicated) tourists.  The long-haired hippies that lived the simplistic and nomadic life of a true traveler slipped into the shadows of the island and the expression of the local Thai become obviously more tense. It was apparent that a long standing tradition had become more of a over-marketed tourist trap then the celebration of traveler and Thai union it once was.

Acoustic guitars replaced by thumping techno.

The spirituality driven with their worn out cloths and dreads are now alcohol crazed college kids sporting their frat and sorority attire, wooooing (there is nothing worse then a fucking woo-girl. . . . ).

We had been warned about this transition.  But our concerns were focused else where.  The boats were bringing more than just thousands of over-intoxicated travelers.  The police force of two, who rarely make appearances and from what I understand are quite good at looking the other way.  Are bolstered to a staggering 17 cops, to include several undercover agents.  This should have been a clear warning sign that the fun was about to come to a screeching halt.

The day of the full moon party had the island pumping with excitement (literally).  The beach was filling up with firework platforms, black light paint artists, fire jugglers, and of course the endless rows of booze buckets sprawled across folding tables and bar stands. Five dollars provided you with a bottle of your choice and a mixer, dumped into a child’s sand bucket.  “Meant for a group”, but often absorbed by a single party-goer.  I wasn’t sure if it was the weed, four consecutive days of mushrooms, or the combination of the two? But I was feeling quite overwhelmed and even startled at the drunken mess that the island had become.  I made my way to the Mountain to conduct my usual transaction and hopefully find ‘a peaceful place to loose my mind’.  But I was informed by the bar owner that he could do nothing for me today.

“To much trouble, to much police.  You come back tomorrow”

“Tomorrow?  Tomorrow does me no fucking good man!”

More than a little discouraged, I ordered a mushroom shake and sat on the edge of the balcony.  I quickly sucked it back as I observed the madness developing below.

Then I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The usual 45 minutes it took for the shake to kick in had turned into an hour and a half.  I ordered another one and again waited out the expected delivery time.  I finally asked the bar tender if I was given the “correct” shake and he informed me they had to cut the dose to a fraction of the usual amount.  In past full moon parties the hordes of drunk college kids would try to drink their way through several buckets and then add a few special shakes to top off the night.  They ended up with large scale freak outs and health problems (kids passing out in the water and almost dying).  Thus they have been required to tone it down.


No weed, no mushrooms, and a head that is quickly fading from a dreamworld daze into a withdrawal nightmare.

Forced to stick to the booze buckets, I did a frustrated shuffle to the closest vendor I could find.  I made my way through one in less time then it took for the ice to melt and began my drunken stumble of self-pity.

As the night weaned on my frustration turned to determination.  I made a second trip the Mountain and again asked to be hooked up.  This time being as discreet as possible to detour any other regulars and employees from noticing.  It might also have helped that I was holding up some extra cash.  By extra, I mean four times the regular cost.

The bartender must have taken pity on my “desperation’.  He slide me a bag and told me I had to leave the bar immediately in case any cops came in.  More than happy to oblige, I skipped my way back to the beach-side bars.  A big happy “I just scored some fucking weed” smile on my face!

It didn’t take me long to find one of my fellow Mountain regulars and we headed to the treeline to roll one up, or two, or three.  By the time we reached what I deemed a safe location, our group, had grown five strong.  We collectively worked feverishly to roll several pain relievers.

We coughed, passed, and laughed for the next twenty minutes.

Just as the last joint was reaching roach status a flashlight pierced through the night and exposed our deer like expressions.  The older French man who was laying on the sand at the time, quickly shoved the last joint deep into the sand.

The cop started yelling at us.  Stating that he knew we had drugs.  He kicked the sand but failed to expose anything.

“I smell your drugs.  You give me drugs now!”

We all denied this accusation and insisted we had no idea what he was talking about.

With an obvious stale mate being reached with verbal instructions, the cop called his partner over to conduct a search.  One by one the group was searched.  My heart began to beat as I had visions of being stuck in a Thai prison.  I slowly slide my hands into my short pockets as I stood quietly and observed the pat downs.  The Thai cop had clearly conducted more than one of these in his time and was not showing any weaknesses in his method.

I debated making a run for it.  I gauged the speed of the cops, factored in my flip flops, and my high blood alcohol level (not to mention cotton mouth).

I thought to myself,  “I just might have the upper hand.  At least I have the element of surprise.”

Just as I was digging my right foot into the sand to prepare for my dash to the left.  The cops radio buzzed with another Thai cop from somewhere else on the island who was headed our way.  It was clear that I was surrounded and I assumed they knew the island far better then I did.  Considering my knowledge was limited to Mushroom Mountain, my hotel room, and the flyer guy that hooked up the tuk tuks to various other party locations (in which I had no fucking clue as to their whereabouts)

What to do? What to do? What to do? Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I made eye contact with my fellow Mountain man and he nodded with a look of confidence. Just as the man finished searching the third member of our group, my partner in crime jumped up in front of the cops face and threw his hands out to his side.  Jolting the silent air with forced laugh and making a mockery of the searching process.  It greatly decompressed the situation and he even got a few chuckles from the cop.

He also obstructed the cops view with his theatrics.

I lifted my right foot and dropped the bag.  I stood on it and slipped out of my flip-flops. When the cop finished his search I continued the joke and approached the cop in a laughing manner.  Leaving my flip flops in the sand where I had standing, hidden by the shadows.  My search was complete and the cops were satisfied with their results.  They warned us that drugs are bad and very serious in Thai land. (You don’t fucking say)

“You just drink alcohol and you not have trouble.”

We all agreed with the advice and walked toward the party with the cops.  I returned to the “safe location” 30 minutes later to find my flops still sitting there with my bag underneath them.  I grabbed my weed and rushed to my hotel room to stash it.  I marveled at my luck and scoffed at what a miserable event the full moon party turned out to be.

Fucking tourists ruin everything. . .