I have a wild imagination, so yes.
Maybe I missed it among the details but did you not offer to clean up the mess you left in the basement toilet? And no one ever mentioned it again ( at least not front of you)?
I think you should send him a pound of chocolate rn, out of the blue be damned. You owe that guy!
Maybe not chocolate..
Fudge?
A pound of each, with peanuts that should jog his memory unless he’s blotted it out of his brain forever
As many hotel nights as I’ve spent, I’ve used hangers for many purposes they weren’t designed for. But never that.
If I misuse something badly enough, I make sure to obviously break it into unusability then put the chunks in the trash. That way they don’t get put back into service by unknowing maids.
In all the years nobody at a hotel ever came after me for destroyed towels or hangers or clock radios or …
Ohh! Do tell!!
This happened decades ago and I still think about it now and then.
My then-fiancé and I accompanied her parents on a weekend trip to a very small town in upstate New York. It is important to bear in mind that I was still very new to her parents.
They were a religious couple, so Sunday morning church was a given. But first, we enjoyed a hearty breakfast at a local diner.
Also important to the story: the church was small. Very small. Like a one-room schoolhouse.
We were seated near the middle, and service was underway, when I felt an uneasy rumbling deep in my gut. Something was percolating. I glanced around and noted that there were two doors in the back marked “Men” and “Women”. I excused myself and shuffled up the aisle to the back, feeling like everyone in the church house was watching me.
Then, in this small church building, with only a veneer door between me and the congregation, there came a loud, rumbling eruption as the watery contents of my bowel sprayed forcefully into the toilet bowl. Keep in mind, also, how quiet a church service can be.
There were more noises of course; more farting, more squirting, more splashing. When I finished, I exited the bathroom and, without looking at anyone, exited the building. There was, I recall, a Burger King next door and I made a beeline there and sat in a booth watching the church doors for indications that mass has ended.
Nobody has since spoken of this day.
mmm
Shame you didn’t make it to Burger King and have your explosion there. Of course if you had, there’d be (next to) no story to tell.
You didn’t.
I didn’t.
Ooh, you’re you saying there’s a chance that I’m a living legend in my hometown? That they’re telling my story?
And you resisted the temptation to order a Whopper burger?
And I know exactly where you have to order it from! (Yes, it’s a real place.)
That’s what you need a poop knife for!
Here lies a toppled god,
His fall was not a small one.
We did but build his pedestal,
A narrow and a tall one. [1]
Typo? or accurate description? Both could be true 
And a story not unrelated: years back, we were at Disneyland. We’d checked out, but were browsing a nearby souvenir shop attached to the park, when I farted.
Only… it wasn’t a fart.
I ran to the restroom and spent at least 20 minutes trying to clean myself up. Didn’t clog the toilet, but I sure flushed it a LOT of times. And I made damn sure I didn’t leave any visible messes anywhere - something more people could use reminding of when using a public restroom.
My luggage was, of course, locked away in the car a few blocks away so a change of underwear was not feasible, and I didn’t want to risk going commando in case the gut was not through with its mischief. So, I had to wash my underpants out in the sink to remove any solid residue, and then I had to put those soaking wet, stained panties back on. That is a nasty sensation. It was at least 3-4 hours before we got to our next destination and I was able to remedy the situation.
That turns out to have been a warning shot for a problem that gradually developed over the next couple of decades. It got bad enough 6 years back that I finally sought help. When your gut goes from “maybe” to “too late” in the time it takes to stand up several times a month, you know it’s bad.
Sounds like loads of fun (not).
I don’t generally have pee incontinence but every now and then, when I’ve left things too long and it’s really urgent, I get to the bathroom and those muscles say “hah, my job is done” and start to relax. It requires a conscious effort not to pee myself 2 feet from the toilet. This is… not always successful. And for a week after my last surgery, where I had a Foley in for over 24 hours, things simply were not always clamping down the way they normally did. Add to that the fact that I was apparently peeing out fluids I drank 20 years ago… there were several times where I started peeing, unaware, as I was starting to sit down. Luckily that seems to have resolved.
I will be asking about pelvic floor therapy, which can help things. A friend has had issues since her hysterectomy 8 years ago and has found that topical estrogen (we’re both 66) is helping some and she is planning on doing PF therapy as well.
My GF does both and we both swear by the results.
This is one of those times when I can’t decide which of the many misfortunes to post about…
@Gatopescado, be like me and post more than one. Here’s my second story:
Nineteen years ago, I discovered that consuming sesame oil immediately makes my body want to evacuate my bowels. I discovered this on my honeymoon, with about 45 minutes worth of subway rides and walking between me and our hotel.
We went to Chinatown for a nice dinner. As soon as we stepped onto the sidewalk outside the Mongolian barbecue, I had an inkling that I might be in trouble. My wife wanted to walk around the Chinatown neighborhood we were in, so we stopped into a bookstore. The only thing I was looking for was a public restroom. Nope, nothing.
Now a lot of this story is lost to the ether due to the fact that my brain was in survival mode, not making-memories mode.
But somehow I talked her into going back to the subway to head back to the hotel. I probably wasn’t talking much in the subway station or on the train, just one-word answers and little head-nods, because I was so laser focused on not pooping my pants, while also mathing out worse case scenarios in my head. I do remember we had to wait a spell for that first train, we had to switch trains at one point, and I failed to find a public restroom at any of the stations.
Keep in mind this is our honeymoon, so it was all young love and happy sexy good times up to this point, and the reality of life and mortgages and aging parents and bowel movements hadn’t yet set in. So I was mathing out a couple things: do I 1) sit silently to focus on keeping my guts from spilling out of my butt, but possibly making my new bride think I’m mad at her or 2) tell her what the problem was, which would also rip off the honeymoon veneer of happy sexy good times.
The other thing I was mathing out was, on a scale of 1-10, how bad would it be to shit my pants on a subway next to my wife of three days. And not just a cute little shart, but rather a car-clearing explosion of sights, sounds and aromas. These were the things I was calculating in my head while trying to keep from literally losing my shit.
We finally got to our final stop, and I realized we had a three or four block walk to our hotel, and that my lovely bride probably wanted to have a slow romantic stroll, hand-in-hand under the Strawberry Moon of late June. I continued to sweat and do math in my head: 1) if I want to continue to keep my insides from spilling out, walking very slowly might just be an okay option, 2) running would get me there quickly, but that might lead to questions from my beloved; the jostling also might “break the seal,” or 3) do I shit my pants and just fucking own it. I mean we already said our “I dos” and the paper was signed. What was she gonna do? Delete my number?
I opted for 1, and I really tried to play the sexycool honeymoon guy for as long as I could but eventually had to say, “Let’s hurry back to the hotel, if you know what I mean,” in as suave a tone as I could muster with sweat rolling down my face into my mouth.
We got back to the hotel and I, with my clothes completely soaked through with sweat, somehow convinced her to go up to the room while I stopped off at the hotel restaurant for a minute. I may have lost my cool a little when I gritted my teeth and said “NO DON’T WAIT FOR ME!” So she went to the elevator, and I carefully/quickly navigated my way though a crowded restaurant I had never been in before and prayed to God that I found the bathroom before it was too late.
Luckily, I did. I told my wife the story sometime over the next year, and she thought it was hilarious. She says she had no idea I was going through anything, so I guess I’m good at playing it cool under intense stress, even when I’m sweating like a demon on Judgement Day.
I read this as her having tissues, which made perfect sense.
mmm