The Big Deucer and the Big Bouncer

Unfortunately for me, the Deuce Era continued and cursed me beyond el Jardin. While it would be many moons before I again had to create my butt-wiping utensils, it would not be before long that I was struck under less than ideal circumstances. At this point in life, I had realized that Red Bull gives me wings... and diarrhea. But I hadn't yet come to grips with the fact that many alcohols had the tendency to induce the deuce. The story begins as any other. A young group of guys heads out to the local bars to enjoy some spirits, loud music and an overly crowded dance floor. I, as the other members of our group, took turns buying rounds of drinks. Obviously, it would be too easy if we chose the same drink each round. So we are a few deep into the night when we head to the dance floor with glasses in hand. Unfortunately for me, this is where the story takes a turn for the bizarre and the downright uncomfortable. After we had found ourselves people to dance with, the all-too-familiar gurgles began to take hold. I decided that the best way to deal with it was the classic pressure release. As the foul odor began to permeate the nostrils of everyone in the dance circle, I realized a fault in this plan. While the bar was smoky, dark and loud, a rotten stench still has a habit of being noticed. I came to the conclusion that it was best to deploy my stink bombs in stealth among strangers. I would excuse myself to "buy drinks" and release the smell of death in various corners of the room. Each time I was sure to cut it off (a well known strategy in which a simple waving motion directly behind the butt is supposed to stop the aroma from following in pursuit). But these were not ordinary stinkers. These were the precocious pre-deuce pipe-bombs that could wake the dead. There was no way to hide from them and no way to cut them off. I scoped the bathroom three or four times, but the deuce had to be avoided at all costs. Not only was the toilet urine-covered and disgusting, there was no door. Not a swinging door, or a small door. No door at all. And it wasn't exactly placed in a location where people wouldn't notice. Everybody and anybody would see the idiot in his weakest moment squatted over the toilet. As the night continued, I came to the conclusion that I had no choice. I was going to venture into new territory: the fully public, open-door bar deuce. In an alcohol induced talkative state, I shared my trepidation with everyone in the bathroom. Now most people would be a bit concerned that a stranger was talking to them about butt-bombs while they urinated. On this twisted magical night, however, there was a hero. The bouncer at this bar was the size and width of two ordinary men. More importantly, he had sympathetic ears and a heart of gold. He paged the janitor who cleaned up the toilet. Then he did what no man should have to do. He stood guard where the stall door should have been to block the view of others and give me my privacy. Mere inches from where my bowels were exploding with sounds, smells and splashes of brown, the big bouncer stood and watched....watched out for trouble. Obviously, he kept his back to me. Its not that kind of story. To the heroic bouncer, whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. I hope life has brought you all the wonderful things you deserve. And if not, at the very least, I hope that you have never again had to stand so close to another man's colon creation.