Been laughing at some of these stories all week and deservedly in the Classics forum. I had a moment in a KFC in Hawaii a few years back which I wrote about for an English class. Can't believe the teacher took a dim view of such heartfelt prose.
Here goes:
It was around the time where McDonald's had just introduced the McFlurry on their menu - Actually, McDonald's meals in Hawaii come with a portion of Pineapple - no wum! Also, back in the embryonic McFlurry days, they came in a massive cup; like a mental Supersize effort, not the totsy things best suited to urine samples of pre-teen Russian gymnasts we know these days. Me, a naive, innocent, pasty child, whose only faecal achievements prior were pathetic to say the least (like paltry Rabbit droppings they were!) had three of these farcically ostentatious ice-cream and M+M's combos for lunch.
As I'm walking down a street later on that afternoon, rather carelessly and not paying attention to anything, within the time it takes to click your fingers the effects strike and the concoction in my bowels kicks in. The degeneration from walking upright without any hint of internal distress to the state of "Oh f*ck, there's a f*cking Interfada going on in there" was violently rapid. The cramp I felt was quite something. It seriously felt like the quasi-formed crap would be best being excreted out of my navel rather than taking the winding road out of my intestines and out of my sphincter. Instinctively I sort of kneeled down from the swift pain the forming jobby was inflicting on myself, bending down to try and alleviate the intense spasms. It didn't take long to figure out something quite severe was going on, and that I needed a crapper immediately.
My eyes darted in desperation, furiously scrambling over my surroundings for a premises with some form of toilet facility. I was met with a KFC establishment at 2 O'Clock just over the road. The distance was around 100 yards or so, but my God, it could have been a cross-country trek with my ailments. It was approaching rush hour, with 6 reasonably busy car lanes separating me from certain death, or an incredibly poo-smeared pair of boxers, khaki shorts with a set of keeky Nike Cortez' to match - you know, whichever comes first. An on-the-spot decision had to be made. I was faced with a choice of a jogging pace to my target whilst having my hand cover my crack to act as a lynchpin for my cheeks; or to take a full-out sprint to the KFC, which although would be quicker, could not guarantee the durability of my ring for this journey. I went with the right hand squeeze.
I took off on my mission at a rather quicker pace than I imagined I had, being a rather slow runner and all. I guess Adrenaline was kicking in right when I needed it. I used rather nifty footwork to dodge between 4 cars and onto the Island banking in the middle of the road - not a bad achievement when you consider one arm is deployed on arse-holding services and you can feel your anus wilting under the pressure of the tsunami of turd.
However, only Phase One of Operation Splashdown completed.
I had to bide my time wading through the next lanes of traffic, just taking it one lane at a time, as soon as a 3 foot gap emerged, darting forwards until I made it onto the sidewalk. After negotiating that with a fair degree of success, I could feel the pressure take a dramatic upturn. It really was about to all go off in my belly.
Phase Two was done.
The situation however was grave, even though the plan had went rather well. I had to take a risk. It needed a flat out sprint straight into the bogs - f*ck the 2 fat c*nts with their naff Old Navy shirts who complained as I bodychecked them out of the way. I stumbled on the last few steps into the toilets, but this did not deter my aggressive and sacrificial nature in my quest to get to that elusive poop-dock. I ended up meeting the restroom door shoulder first - whoever came off worst is debateable, but it got the job done. Now was hardly the time to worry about a bruised shoulder, certainly not when there is a product of unearthly qualities in your pipeline, choosing this pre-destined moment in your life to unleash its awesome power.
Phase Three, tick.
I praise Xenu when the sacred sh*tter was staring back at me, thankfully vacant (Although, that may not have mattered too much, the state I was in!) beckoning my buttocks towards its enchanting, mystical pan. In one swift movement, acting upon pure instinct, I literally ripped the button off my shorts in taking them and my boxers down. My other hand acted to lift my shirt up to ensure that none of my curler would touch any clothing of mine. And so, my lily-white arse was brandished, now so very nearly ready to expel its unruly waste. I spun round with quite some grace. I buckled backwards as to dock with the pan, now in a state to drop off my special delivery. My buttocks docked successfully. Thank f*ck. Phase Four:
PRRRRRRRRRRRNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGPPPP HHHHPAHPAHPAHPAHPWNEEEEEEEGAHPAHPAHPAHKRRRRRRRRRRP AHPAHPAHPAHPAHPAHPAH!
The shit had promised to be special, and good God did it deliver. Immediately the sheer force and scale of this toley was more than apparent. I nearly took off from the seat with the initial blast. The noise which my bowels made is something that shall live eternally in the Pacific Ocean and in my memory. It honestly did feel like my intestines had been infiltrated by every form of Devil imaginable. The velocity at which the crap hit the water and the bowl was of Biblical proportions. However, not one solitary blast. Oh God no. Churn after churn the matter vomited from my erse. My anus, which had taken some heroic abuse before the point of expulsion, felt like it had been subjected to a series of chemical burns, sodomised several times by a laser printer, been devoured and processed by a pack of rabies-ridden Leopards with a quick swipe of a plutonium rod thrown in for good measure. The crap erupting downwards into the pan was by now reaching gallons in volumes. I can only imagine the look on my face, but I bet I can only have as been red as my ring. What a mighty, mighty relief I was disposing of the poop though. Still not done though, and with a few almighty bellows from my internal organs, the sh*te passed and went.
Now time to summon up a mound of toilet tissue and take the first tentative wipes of my hole, and judging by the volume of stool I amassed on my initial wipes, this had indeed been a historic poo. A film of spatter was on my cheeks and testicles and had found it's way into those wickedly awkward crevices that crap has a knack of infiltrating, ensuring that a rainforest's worth of toilet tissue was used in cleaning alone.
The euphoria of the crap saw me through the cleaning process, as I was f*cking shattered after all that. After I deemed it safe, with a period of rest, I summoned up the strength to do up me kecks and shorts and reflect on my achievement. It was absolutely magical; all the colours of the faecal spectrum were there, so many beautiful shades, textures and layers. I observed I had actually coated the ENTIRE bowl with sh*te, and from the newly created Everest of poo where the water should be. Seriously, it was an act of a higher power; if I was still sitting there giein' it laldy, it would be very very nearly going back up my poop chute! My eyes were quick to fill with tears and I had a lump in my throat, however, the smell was of something I have never experienced before, so that was probably it. I couldn't flush it now. No way, not after all we had been through together. I simply made backward tracks, blew a kiss towards my masterpiece and named her "Millie". With that, I left, swelled with a fierce pride, knowing that my life had indeed taken a momentous turn.
It's fair to say that I regard that poo as a defining moment of my life. I feel like a far better person for what I did, like I have grown. And who is to say that there isn't a Millie in all of us, eh? Why do we inhibit our poo souls with such gayer nonsense like Cous-Cous and Actimel? Who made it illegal to dream and made the soul-enriching experiences of a quality sh*te taboo?
My dear friends, I leave you with one great message from my tale. So great that should you remember nothing else about this tale of colon-defying glory, remember this if I can change, and reptilian shapeshifters in hilariously bad conspiracy theories can change, and paedophiles can change, WE ALL CAN CHANGE.
And, with that, we move onto the next great adventure. Once I find the Immodium, of course...
" fuck, thought to myself, luckily i just got a ribbing but they thought it was piss 
