Pass The Toilet Paper
In which accidents happen
I sit on a bench and watch the rain fall. The dirt turns to mud as my stomach churns in pain.
I have been sitting on this bench for thirty minutes and nobody has come. I walked the five miles to this bench in order to learn how to identify three types of squirrels. I also came to hear the dirty jokes that the counselor always starts the class off with; mostly, though, it was for the squirrels.
I sit on the bench and hear the rain thump on the tarp over my head. The noise develops into a rhythmic pattern as I sit there, waiting for the counselor to show up.
I begin to relax and … crap, I just farted.
My stomach churns again, emitting a gurgle that travels though my intestinal track and escapes from my rear — reminding me of what will happen if I lose control.
I shouldn’t have eaten that chicken last night. My buddy told me that it didn’t look good. He showed me the pink part and told me all about salmonella. I told him that I agreed; it needed to cook a bit longer.
I was hungry though and I’m a jerk and I ate the chicken.
My stomach sloshes around and I regret ignoring the threat of food poisoning. I chuckle at my little rhyme (oh, it’s there) as I emit another fart. The rhyming stanza was off and my stomach hurts. What’s knocking at my back door wants out.
I look around for the nearest bathroom stall and the only thing I see are trees. I take out my map and I realize that the nearest bathroom is three miles back at the trading post.
My intestinal tract perform “Rhythm of the Night” and I fart again.
I casually look through my backpack for my toilet paper and find a note from my buddy. He borrowed my toilet paper, MY TOILET PAPER, to replace the missing roll at the outhouse back at base camp. I look through my backpack frantically for a scrap of paper, willing to accept anything at this point. I find my homework from yesterday. I look around and see no counselor to give my homework to. I look at my homework again and I fart again.
I grab my homework and I run into the woods. I frantically search the woods for a suitable tree to sacrifice my offering to. I find a creek. It will do. The rain has cleared up and the creek is running downhill. I try to remember if it is more environmentally safe to take a dump in a creak or on a tree. As I think, I fart.
I pull down my pants and squat into the creek, my butt immersed in water. I breathe a sigh of relief as I fart one last time and everything comes out.
I breathe another sigh of relief and I hear a twig snap.
“The North American Grey Squirrel has been known to sometimes take a swim in shallow creeks, much like the one ahead.”
I pause from wiping my butt with my homework to glance over my shoulder. My counselor stands behind me, open mouthed. My classmates stand behind him, cameras drawn.
The first flash goes off and I ask if any of them happens to have any toilet paper.
