Perhaps I'm obsessed...

A few years ago in Calgary, I was over at a girl’s house watching a movie. Exciting stuff, no? Problem was, that we selected Casino for our viewing pleasure. Now this, in and of itself, was not a problem, Casino is a fantastic movie. The trouble was that Casino is three hours long, and somewhere around the midpoint, I suddenly had to use the bathroom like nobody’s business. Now, I don’t know about the rest of you fellas, but I have to know a girl pretty well before I’m going to take a dump at her house. I was torn. This was obviously a cool chick if she wanted to watch Casino, so I couldn’t exactly leave before the movie was over, nor could I dare use the bathroom so mockingly close to the TV room, and definitely within auditory and olfactory range.

I decided I would brave the storm. I sat in extreme discomfort, squeezing my cheeks, waiting for gas bubbles to burst to give a moment’s relief. Finally, the Casinos fell, and the film was over. I casually said my goodnights, said I had a really nice time through gritted teeth, and walked out the door.

When I stepped into the chilly autumn air around 2 AM, I stared down the street and realized a major tactical error in my planning. I was so intent on making it out of there with my dignity intact, if you will, that I had completely forgotten that I now had to walk home – 15 blocks home. And this was a residential area, no 7-11’s or convenient stores like that on my route. I realised that this was it. This would be the test of all tests.

And so I began my butt-clenched, high-speed swagger. It was a tough balance between speeding up to get home sooner, and maintaining a speed that wouldn’t upset things too much. It was as if you had a hole in the gas-tank of your car, and you knew you had to choose between getting somewhere faster and burning gas before it spills out, or conserving gas to make it further, hoping the leak was slow enough to last. A dangerous game. Suddenly, as I passed by a dark alleyway, a plastic bag flew out in an updraft right in front of me. It was a rattling apparition that launched itself straight into my face. That was almost the end of the ballgame, when that slimey plastic bag slammed into my face it quite literally almost scared the shit out of me.

I made it the last few blocks and flew into my apartment. Then of course came the old dilemma. Does this ever happen to anyone else? You have to use the bathroom so badly, that as soon as you see the toilet, you’re brain, for whatever perverse reason, says, ok, here we go! It’s the worst moment of the entire ordeal… to make it so far, to be so close, only to lose your shit in your own bathroom. Luckily, I had experience in these matters and had started unbuckling my belt a good block and a half back. So relief was mine, and disaster averted.

Realistically, I have no idea why I just related that anecdote. It serves no purpose. I don’t think there’s even a moral to the story, except maybe: Don’t be a dumb-ass. Ok, I’m going to go write something that has nothing to do with my gastrointestinal system. I promise. You people have endured enough.