Poop-fist is exactly what it sounds like: a fist made of poop punching it’s way out of your butt. Sure, you can fight back-maybe even last a couple rounds for show-but poop-fist will always win. Poop-fist is the undefeated heavyweight champion and that day it was working my butthole over like Rocky Balboa on a side of beef.”Don’t make me laugh”, I begged as I scooted my way towards some bushes. Jeremy was of course laughing hysterically at my predicament and I thought even Kenny Rogers-who knew when to hold ’em-could never hold back this tsunami wave of beer batter. I made the lethal mistake of laughing, displacing enough muscle control from my brown star, and the floodgates opened up.
Within seconds my underwear was filled to capacity-a good 4 pounds. A second wave pushed the standing room only crowd over and out of my shorts, hanging onto my legs and stage diving onto my shoes. Without mercy or remorse, poop-fist was literally beating the shit out of me. I finally got behind the bushes and pulled off my pants, trying to find something to clean up with. Jeremy’s laughter by now had reduced him to tears and as he watched me, pissed into the bushes. But he who laughs last doesn’t always laugh alone. As his giggling got the best of him he became another victim of poop-fist’s victory “streak.”
“Holy shit”, he cried out as poop began falling out of his shorts. He ran over next to me and repeated the same drill as we both spider walked over some rocks, spraying mud without restriction. The voices of hikers were heard in the distance and I wondered what would befall us if we were caught. 2 grown men porky pigging it(shirts but no pants)in a national park cleaning shit off our legs with what little was left of our underwear next to what looked and smelled like someone had gutted a pig. It was so unreal, I felt like I was having an acid flashback. It was hilarious, but also terrifying. Plus the fact that our wives were awaiting our return from our little adventure.
We wiped up the worst spills with what whatever untainted scraps of our underwear was left and then put our poopy shorts back on. It was a huge bummer. “The coyotes are gonna eat well tonite”, Jeremy remarked. ‘Yes they are‘, I thought to myself as I glanced down at the carnage left behind. “Damn the ‘nam!”, I cried out as I fell to my knees. “Damn the ‘nam!” We embraced on the ground and wept as we looked upon our fallen brothers before beginning the long task of giving them a proper burial.
Oh-and then 6 months later I was totally divorced. Party.
Before we begin this mystical journey together I would like to point the sad fact out that I no longer need to spellcheck the word “diarrhea.” This here yarn I’m about to unfold is a luckless hand to be laid, and Kenny Rogers ain’t around to advise through song. Let’s just say shit got real ugly.
For those uninitiated to the bottomless debauchery of Las Vegas, I like to say that Vegas is to heathens what Africa is to black people-it’s the motherland. During the day Vegas looks like the the Mall of America gave Donald Trump a blow job and then barfed up its guts into the desert-giant, corporate hotels covered in jizz. However, at night with all the overstimulating and hypnotic neon, it’s like a giant midway for ne’er do well adults to be “naughty” and set fire to their money and inhibitions.
I arrived in the a.m. with my then wife(I was married once-whoops)to meet my best friend(we’ll call him “Jeremy”) and his wife at the time(double whoops)and was rather disgusted at the giant monument to western capitalism and greed. After welearned we could drag 12 packs of beer around and smoke anywhere we pleased, I immediately lost my moral compass and we indulged our heathen tendencies, almost to a point of self-reflection, and pretty much figured ‘fuck it-let’s puh-puh-puh-party.’
The days were spent with the wives doing tourist activities and behaving like civilized adults until they eventually got sleepy. Then we’d give the car-keys to our inner savages and say, “have at it, dickholes!” and drink and gamble til the awful and unforgiving sun came up, retreating back to our hotel rooms for maybe 2 hours of sleep. And by “sleep” I mean “being unconscious.” Wake up, eat ancient Greece-sized portions of MSG filled buffets and repeat.(Weird side-note: in some casinos they get bummed if you swear. I know-that’s weird, right? This was mentioned to us at a black jack table around 5 am to which Jeremy responded, “you’re fuckin’ kiddin’ me?” to which they responded by calling security.)
So after 3 days of buffets and 3 nights of heathenry it was time to leave the city for some more tourist bullshit. It was time to go to Red Rocks Canyon. (Oh-and if yer ever in Vegas get the kobe beef bloody mary at the MGM. Holy shit-it’s like drinking a steak.)We stopped for big coffees on the way and began some ol’ fashioned trash talking about how that canyon better be deep as we planned to fill it with irresponsible amounts of diarrhea(no spellcheck-holla!)brewing from the irresponsible amounts of alcohol and buffet food we’d ingested.
As we pulled into the park we saw that the tourist info building was closed and man, I really needed to take a shit. The restroom was also closed but I figured I could hold it for awhile. We pulled up to a scenic view point with a trail leading into the canyon. For some reason our wives(oopsy daisy)were wearing high heels along with dresses that weren’t exactly hiking friendly so we decided to go down together, leaving the women behind in hopes that the men would return-possibly with food. Wow-things got kinda western. Anyways, as we began the descent, poop-fist landed it’s first blow…