My Whole Completey True Story I wrote For English Class.

Quite long. But everyone who has read it has found it remarkably funny. So I think it would be well worth the read. The criteria for the paper was to take a story from someone you knew, and make that story into a written one. Your input would be greatly appreciated. I have to turn it in for a final grade next monday.

                 THE VERACIOUS BUMPER STICKER


Mike was a good kid. Not the overly goody two shoes, "My Mommy says I’m not allowed to play backyard football," good that makes one sick to the pit of his stomach. Those four-eyed poindexter’s deserve to be bullied for the duration of childhood, grow up whimpering self-loathers, living lives of friendless solitude, spending days in front of a computer screen in a cubicle in the corner of the office, before a demise at the hands of a revolver in a hotel room with a suicide note left on the bed. No, Mike wasn’t that good.  Mike was the kind of good that, despite his humor driven personality, never gave him much luck with the ladies because he could never be the reckless rebel, playing by his own rules, who makes women swoon. He was honest, kind, and always told the truth as to how he really felt about a given situation. In a nutshell, he was the nice guy who always finished last.  
He was in his basement watching Letterman. It was around 12:30am and his mood was melancholy. He felt despondent because it was Friday night and his parents had told him that he had to stay in as a punishment for failing an important history examination.   It was at this moment that he heard a knock on one of the basement windows. He was apprehensive at first, fearing that it was a burglar, but he was more than relieved when the faces in the window revealed themselves to be Katie and Scarlett.  The latter was a magnificent beauty, and although it may have just been his imagination that night, it almost seemed as if she was wearing lipstick that  matched her name.  Mike opened up the window, “Hey, what are you girls doing here?”
“We know you are grounded, so we thought we would sneak you out of the house. Want to come over to my house and drink with us?”  prompted Scarlett batting her eyes and smirking in a fashion that would make Betty-Boop jealous.  At the chemical level, millions of neurons fired off in the Mike’s three pound brain, at the conscious level a moral dilemma; on his left shoulder the devil whispered in his ear “ Go with these gorgeous young teenage woman-who knows what may happen?  It’s no secret that alcohol plus adolescent woman has led to many a lost virginity, not to mention that there are two of them! What do the French call it? A ménage a trois?” Peering up at him from his right shoulder stood a tiny figure dressed in white with a halo over his head “ Your parents love you and they grounded you for your own good.  Why would you want to disappoint them? Are you really going to creep out through that window and go fill your body with those perilous liquids? You are underage! You are a good down to earth person Mike, respect yourself for who you are. Are you going to let these girls peer pressure you?  You are better than that Mike, stand up for yourself, say NO!”
Mike coolly sipped his bottle of Heineken.  The conversation had been going better than he could have ever hoped for, the three of them sat Indian style in Scarlett’s room, and every time Mike unleashed a witty comment, Scarlett  placed her soft hand on Mike’s thigh as she curled over with laughter.  Katie, not to be outdone, was rubbing Mike’s left shoulder with her right hand. Her warm smile sent tingles throughout his being, his hormones swarming his body like bees chasing Macauley Culkin.
It was a few a seconds later that Mike’s night took a turn for the worse, or better yet a dive.  The kind of dive that commonly involves a pilot screaming “MAYDAY MAYDAY”.  It was the gurgling that was the warning sign, a slight queasiness in his stomach.   This cannot be, not now. He knew what was coming but he thought he could fight it off.  He kept up with the jokes and received another laugh from his audience.  His stomach began to feel bloated, the growls from his midsection were reminiscent of a cat in heat. He noticed that his palms were filled with perspiration. Mike became nervous and his once calm, suave demeanor was now riddled by a shaky voice; he started to get lost in his stories, but the girls hadn’t pinpointed the problem yet.
Now these were two girls, two thin gorgeous girls, probably didn’t even have bowel movements.  There was no way that Mike would go excuse himself to the bathroom which was situated a mere ten feet away to let out an eruption that would make Mount Saint Helen’s sound like a firecracker. This would be the most horrible turn-off one could possibly imagine, and would annihilate any chance of successfully completing the quintessential masculine fantasy of a ménage a trois.  Besides he had an idea. Just like the time in eighth grade gym class when, while doing jumping jacks, he couldn’t help but ogle at Stacy Kohler’s voluptuous bosoms bouncing up and down and felt the immediate rush of blood to the penile organ.  He would use his extraordinary will to fight off the imminent embarrassing situation!  He tried some relaxation techniques, “breath in  and out…slowly…,” and to his delight the slightest glimmer of hope emerged as the pressure of the gas pains subsided a bit.  But this feeling of relief and content was to be as short-lived as the despicably inept French military resistance to Hitler’s invading Nazi army in World War II.  For in a matter of minutes the old nether regions began to register like a Geiger counter at Three Mile Island.   His bowels began to contort their selves into inhuman positions. “C‘mon, my will power can conquer anything.  Concentrate!” he thought, but it was no use, there were runaway turds speeding down the expressway of his intestines at well over fifty m.p.h and not even Keanu Reeves could stop them.
 “CAN YOU GIRLS PLEASE DRIVE ME HOME NOW!” He wasn’t aware that he had screamed at the top of his lungpower until after he had blurted the sentence out.  Katie and Scarlett ceased all conversation and were stuck in a cryogenically frozen state, completely dumbfounded with mouths agape. 

“Why do you want to go home Mike?” questioned Scarlett.
“You know, well I’m tired and it’s almost 3am and I think that it would be best if I went home.”
“Oh you are such a wimp, but alright, I mean if you really have to,” as she slowly slid her hand from his kneecap towards his upper thigh. Mike grabbed her by the wrist and demanded that they leave immediately.
Mike glanced down at his right hand which was now Casper white from the Vulcan death grip he employed on the inside door handle of the backseat of Scarlett’s car in a vain attempt to take his mind off the ungodly pain he was experiencing in the stomach and rectum area. The phenomenological equivalent of the torture the known homosexual King Edward II must have felt when he was executed by burning hot rod up the anus.
During the roughest periods of life, time crawls to a halt. That car ride may have only been five minutes on a clock, but it was five years in Mike’s subjective experience. When it was finally over Mike stepped out of the car and he may or may not have said “goodbye”. That wasn’t the most important thing on his mind. Finally he was home, in a few moments he would be at the promised land, squatting over a sparkling white porcelain throne with crystal blue water and his night of complete torture would be consummated. As the girls drove off, he walked to his front door legs wide apart, moving one leg at a time like John Wayne in a spaghetti western in order to prevent a premature evacuation. As he approached the door he reached into his right pocket, the pocket where he always put his keys in so as to never lose them. Nothing was there!
Mike frantically began checking every pocket, every crevice, any place where the keys to his house might be. He didn’t have them. It was as simple as that. Panic quickly grabbed hold of him. But there was still hope, he had exited through his basement window and maybe, just maybe, he had left it open.
He continued his best impression of the duke at a showdown around to the back of the house, where his dream of relieving himself into a toilet with some dignity came crashing down like Sonny Bono on a double black diamond. The window was shut and locked.
As he stood there in his backyard he became abruptly aware of temporal limitations imposed by physiology. To explain further, there comes a point when the body which has been expecting an event to occur will no longer cower before the power of the mind. Like the messages in Mission: Impossible that inform the reader of their impending self-destruction, there comes a point where one’s ass says, “If you do not get your pants down in five seconds, you will shit yourself.”
And so it began. The time required to unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants was, from an objective standpoint, a relatively short period of time. To Mike though, life seemed to stop. However, as he approached the point at which no human sphincter could constrict any further, he finally managed to get his pants down, and the shit poured out like a burst pipe . His body shuddered with a feeling that was almost orgasmic. The shit was gushing rhythmically now out onto the ground. Every few seconds a new wave of the vilest, most foul liquid Mike had ever seen squirted joyously from his body. The sounds blaring into the cool night air were that of the tuba section of a fourth grade orchestra with Helen Keller playing the role of conductor. Squatting with his head between his knees, he could see intermittent bursts issue forth. Finally, the geyser quieted, and Mike squatted motionless for a few moments, a few peaceful and blissful moments before he realized that he hadn’t been able to get his pants down all the way nor remembered to lift up his shirt. Every article of clothing he was wearing was covered in the stuff.
Mike’s forefinger trembled as it slowly made its way to the doorbell. The inevitable forthcoming scene would surely not be in any Kodak commercials. Mike, the pride and joy of his parents, their one and only son raised to be a man of integrity, to be a productive member of society and above all to carry on their proud family heritage. His dignified parents would open the front door and come to three striking realizations. One: Mike had disobeyed their direct orders and gone out with friends. Two: he was not the acute young man they thought he was, as only a nitwitted moron would hatch a plan to sneak out of the house and then forget his keys upon return. Three: he was emitting an intolerably putrid odor that could only be explained by the fact that he was drenched in his own fecal matter.
In reflection it may have been a good thing that Mike’s heavy-sleeping parents did not awake to the sound of the doorbell, even though he had rang the doorbell countless times in terrified desperation for nearly twenty minutes. But at that instant all that was running through Mike’s head was “This night could not have possibly gotten any worse, yet it just did.” There was nothing in Mike’s previous seventeen years of life that could have prepared him for this situation. He was stranded, outside, in the pitch black dark at 3:30 in the morning and he had soiled himself.
His best friend John lived about a mile and a half away, and as a last ditch effort he decided it would be best to hike to John’s house. As he traversed down the road a car passed him. It brought a grin to Mike’s mouth. Little did that driver know that Mike had just squeezed out more chocolate than a Hershey’s factory. The walk, however, wasn’t all fun and giggles as some of the wet, squishy feeling he had in his pants and the stream down his leg had long since settled in his shoes making every step feel like he was marching through a swamp of freshly laid horse manure on barefoot.
When he reached John’s house he first went into the garden to lift up a pot of flowers, underneath contained the hidden key. He then cautiously opened the front door, fearing that making the slightest creek would awaken John’s parents. Since the house was only a single-story, Mike tip-toed past John’s parents room and into John’s. He found John curled up in the covers, with a slight smile on his face, probably lost in dream world. Mike grabbed John by the shoulders and shook him, whispering “John, John, wake up, wake up man.” John kicked in a spastic way almost as if having a seizure.
It took a few seconds for John to realize where he was and when he did he was more than surprised to find Mike standing over him. “ What, what , are you doing here?”
“Oh man, I don’t even know where to”
“WHAT THE HELL IS THAT SMELL, DID YOU SHIT YOUR PANTS?” a rustling was heard in John’s parents room as they may have been awakened by John’s question.
“Dude,shhh, you are going to wake your parents up. I didn’t shit my pants. I um, just”
“Then, what the hell, you are freaking covered in the stuff!” John interrupted.
“Just relax, I’ll explain everything.” So Mike told him, every triviality, from how he had been tempted by lust over to Scarlett’s house to how he had left an abominable crime scene in his backyard.
“Mike, you disgust me. You are a disgrace to mankind. I mean what the hell, what do we do now? Ok, go into the bathroom and get yourself cleaned up and try not touch anything on the way. I’ll get you some clean underwear.” Mike continued his pussyfoot routine to the bathroom where he undressed into his birthday suit. He pondered hopping in to the shower, before realizing that it would make too much commotion and he couldn’t risk waking John’s slumbering parents. He gazed over at a brand new roll of toilet paper and said “Alright, let’s do this.”
Twenty minutes later as the last single ply sheet plunged into the bowl, Mike leaned back, hands on hips and gave a grand smile. The repulsive task of wiping off every last droplet of his own droppings had exhausted every last piece of toilet paper from the fresh roll. He would now literally wash away the evidence of the prior events. As he pressed down on the shiny silver handle, the bowl sputtered and shook as the water rushed in to meet the toilet paper. Houston, we have a problem.
John appeared wearing surgical gloves and carrying a trash bag. “Mike, put your clothes in here, I am going to go throw them in the creek behind my house. I left clean attire for you in my room.”
“Hold on, I, clogg…”
“Go now, I heard my dad getting up in his room, I think we woke him. Do you want him to see you buck naked?”
“But, John the toilet is…”
“Now!”, John demanded! Mike hustled back to John’s room to hastily put on some clothes. He could hear the toilet bubbling over like Niagara Falls on a summers day. Even worse, he distinctly heard the boisterous footsteps of John’s beefy father thundering down the hallway towards the bathroom, most likely relieving himself of the wine he drank for dinner. It was a race. Mike dressed in a flash and darted back to the bathroom but had to skid to a stop like the real winner of a game of chicken before reaching his destination. The toilet had overflowed on to the floor oozing out to the hallway a river of sewage so repulsive Michelangelo would have yacked up his gnarly extra cheese pizza on site. It didn’t help that standing in the middle of this carnage was John’s father, decked out in a tank top, boxer shorts and no protective footwear.
Awkward silence persisted for a good ten seconds before Mike finally mustered the courage to speak. “I think I may have clogged the toilet, sir.”
“You think! You think you may have clogged the toilet? My god son, what kind of rhinoceros shit did you take? There is enough toilet paper here to TP Yellowstone National Park!
“I’m sorry sir, I didn’t mean …”
“Haven’t you ever heard of double flushing!” At this point John returned from the creak still wearing his surgical gloves. His father continued his rant “ Just where the hell have you been? Forget it, I don’t even want to know. Just get the plunger from the garage and have this cleaned up by morning. I’ve got to piss like a race horse and I can’t wait any longer, I’m going to the other bathroom.”
As Mike stepped out of John’s car, John shook his head and they both laughed. It had taken them the remainder of the night to clean up the mess Mike had made. There was just one last piece of evidence to take care of as Mike caroused to the back of the yard where he grabbed the hose off the rack. He proceeded with caution as his backyard should have been marked off with police tape. As he hosed away the enormous retched heap of dung that would have made the sick Triceratops in Jurassic Park proud, the red sun of dawn broke the horizon and illuminated the sky. Mike reminisced about all that had happened that night. His strict parents had grounded him for the weekend, but like the rebel he always wanted to be he escaped to party with sexy young women. And then there was the storm that brewed in his stomach, the car ride home, the explosion of shit he left on the early morning dew. The unfortunate events at John’s house where modern toilet technology had failed to devour all the toilet paper. The best part of it all was that he had gotten away with it, no one besides his best friend knew, a person whom he trusted more than anyone else in the world to keep the complete and total sequence of events that night stashed away in the vault of files never to be released to the public. No one would ever know, no one. This was absolute bliss. He let out a chuckle, a chuckle that turned into a hearty laugh that derived from all the way down in his belly up and traveled up to his throat and out through his wide open mouth.
“MIKE JUST WHAT IN GOD’S NAME ARE YOU DOING?!?” Mike slowly turned around, his face that just a second before was bursting with laughter now had the eyes wide open look of someone who had just seen a ghost. Glaring down at him from their bedroom window stood Mike’s dad, with his mother peeping over her husband’s shoulder.

Every decent story has a moral, and the moral of this story is well, what else could it be? Shit happens.  In life nothing ever goes according to plan, you have a big date on Friday only to come down with a cold on Thursday. In Mrs. Shephard’s class in fourth grade a kid named Jeff Fox gave a stunning twenty minute oral presentation on Abraham Lincoln. His reward?  Being teased for the next few months because his fly was open the whole time.  It was a character in Jean-Paul Sartre’s “Nausea” who stated, “There is no such thing as a perfect moment.”  I couldn’t agree more.  But I propose a hypothesis, seemingly horrible turns of events-losing your suitcase when going on vacation, spending a night in jail, plastering your parents backyard with a sea of caca-these are the stories we tell when want a laugh.  These are life’s adventures.  No one rides a nice and steady train for pleasure, instead we pay large sums of money to ride the roller coasters.

did you ever find out what your grade on this was? lol, and what did the teacher say??? hahah

i liked this, it was funny… if a little stomach churning… this is a true story… who is mike?

now how come this was never an episode of “worst case scenario”?