05/15/2005 - 8:03 p.m. | insurgent

So. Almost one year ago exactly (363 days, to be precise), Kyle and Shelly visited my parents with me for a day. It was a pleasant time - my dad got hammered and we slept in a tent - but the outcome of the journey was most foul: The Birthday Turd. See, May 17th is Kyle's birthday, as well as the day we got back, and when we did, he created a poop the likes of which most mortals have never seen. It was absolutely massive, in both length and girth, and managed to completely break the toilet for at least two days, coating the bowl with a foul porridge and eventually forcing our landlord to come with one of those huge toilet snakes. Our goal one year later was simple: Recreate that Birthday Turd.

Between my diary and our combined memories, we had a pretty good idea of the Turd schedule. We left the house late Saturday afternoon, stopping at Arby's and (specifically ignored my parents by) filling Kyle up with some chicken sandwich. From there we drove home for what we figured was the first key ingredient of the Turd - the glue that held the walls together, if you will - guacamole. Kyle ate a whole shit ton and a half last year, and we had to start him off with the same (and a Coke, he had a Coke). Unfortunately, though, the place we got the guacamole from (and which my dad went to on a special trip for) was out, so they had to improvise with a home recipe. Kyle still did his fair share and ate it both before and after dinner. We also had a fair approximation of the meal from last year - risotto, asparagus, some sort of chicken, whatevs. A lemon drop after dinner and then let the thing stew overnight. The next day, egg casserole thing, toast, and coffee. Then, on the drive back, we ordered the chicken flautas to go from the same Mexican place we ate at last year. We were well on our way, as Kyle was already starting to feel the onset.

We were close, but there were a few key aspects I thought might be missing, for which it took no small sacrifice to supply him with. The first two were fairly simple - he'd had a lemonade at the Mexican place (and I thought the citric acid might be important), so I bought him one of those. Also, the Mexican place neglected to supply him with rice and beans (another crucial glue ingredient, I thought), so I stopped at Taco Bell to get him some (even though he was already ill by this point and didn't want to eat ever again - think about that!). Fine, that's only a couple bucks. However, last year on our Turd excursion, we had all gone out on a hike at Starved Rock, and someone pointed out that the exertion (and more importantly, the sweat) might be important, especially with risky warning signs now telling Kyle that this might be a watery poop instead. Thus, in an effort to get him sweaty, I cranked up the heat all the way in the car, covering Kyle with sweatshirts until the water was drained from his poop (our theory). Shelly, lacking sweat glands and all, was getting fussy, though, and we suddenly started down the road of this awful, awful game of chicken. The theory was that if Kyle was, ahem, sexually excited that he would exert himself a whole lot and our hiking problem would be solved. So it sort of became a match of wills; who would be the first one to back out of this plan? Not me, I decided, as I was willing to sacrifice anything for science. But see, the thing about chicken is that everyone gets fucked if no one backs down, and since the only downside for Kyle would be getting [mouth] fucked, he didn't have much to back out of. So that's how they ended up in the caboose of my car, she going down on him (his cock in her mouth in my car OHFUCKMEWHAT HAVEIDONE) while I blasted Christian rock music and tried not to see anything in the reflections. To distact myself, I made it a point to get in front of semi trucks and maintain there speed such that they would get a show. Enjoy!

He finished quickly (I thought, at least compared to my dysfunctional ass) and suddenly we entered a whole new disturbing world. Maybe this was just one more crucial third wheel wall that had to be knocked down (so now they can just fuck in the same room as me and I can just sort of space out and think about things like not him cumming in her mouth OHGODOHGOD) but it was also one huge step closer to a total mental breakdown by me. My stomach has been in knots ever since. So you see the sacrifices I make, right? I feel like if I don't drink right now, I might not ever be normal again.

Anyway, we got home, me mostly staring haunted at the road, trying not to speak or drive us into an embankment. Kyle held it in as long as was humanly possible and finally - release! And the results?

SON OF BIRTHDAY TURD

Holy fucking shit, we've cracked the Omega Code, guys. It was the same damn thing - hell, possibly worse. Motherfucker was at least a foot and a half long all in one huge, awful piece (It had to be exhumed from the toilet with a plastic fork), wider around than a bottle, and with a smell I honestly cannot believe. I've dealt with some nasty shit before - vomit, too - but just standing there, trying to take pictures of the thing, was making me gag all over the place. And now, the smell is starting to follow me. I ran to the kitchen to call my parents and reveal the success, and it was there. I came up here to write this, and it's creeping up here, too. This is the most foul poop ever created by man, and I don't think anyone is ever going to top it.

I'm sorry, but I'm too horrified to write anything else right now.

P.S. Pictures? Oh hell yes we took pictures. However, for the sake of your stomach, I will only link to them. 1 / 2 - A modern miracle.