Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Thanksgiving



With Thanksgiving last week, I got to thinking about overindulgence. As a child I definitely suffered from a bad case of my eyes being larger than my stomach when it came to food. We were poor hicks living in a trailer out in the middle of a cow pasture and our diets were rather simple. I grew up on mac-n-cheese from a box, peanut butter & jelly sandwiches, Spam, Chef Boyardee and grape Kool-Aid.

So… at Thanksgiving, Christmas or Easter when we’d attend large family dinners at my aunt’s house or at the Baptist church, I’d go hog wild and eat way too much, way too fast and immediately get a bad case of diarrhea from the overload of spicy food. Wherein lies my problem, as a kid I was very “poo shy”. I was extremely embarrassed about bowel movements (and the smells they created) and could only poop in a bathroom with the door locked tight. So this meant I would only do number two in a public bathroom if it was a single toilet bathroom with a locking door. The Baptist church only had a large men’s bathroom with three toilets side by side out in the open (not even in stalls) and only the oldest, foulest men would plop down on one of those toilets and have a poop right out in the open where everybody could see you and comment on your general stinkyness. Luckily, my Mamaw Vernie lived just down the hill from the church and I’d take off running for her house so I could poop in her outhouse in private. Sometimes I didn’t make it in time and ended up pooping in my pants a little bit. I’d take my soiled underwear off and hide them in a clump of bushes somewhere and usually forget about it until I undressed for bed that night.

I remember at one family dinner at my aunt Doris’s house, I overindulged and needed to poop in the worse way but some teenage cousins were occupying the bathroom and they wouldn’t come out when I knocked. So, I crept into the dining room where all the adults were sitting around smoking and drinking coffee to whisper to my mom that I had to poop really bad.  My grandma’s wisecracking, 85-year-old sister, Mamie saw me and demanded to know what I was whispering about. Mamie terrified me and strongly resembled the Penguin from the old Batman TV show from the sixties. Yes, she wore a monocle and had one of those long cigarette thingies.


(Aunt Mamie sans wig)

All conversation stopped and suddenly everybody turned around to look at me, so I thought I had better tell the truth and said, “I gotta poop and somebody’s in da bathroom with the door locked!” 

Mamie picked up a paper bag and handed it to me, Here, go behind a bush outside, poop in this bag and then throw the bag out in the woods when you're finished.” My little seven-year-old mind just couldn’t process that thought and I   incredulously exclaimed, “Nuh-uh...You can’t poop in a poke!” The adults laughed until they cried and this story is still told at family dinners much to my embarrassment.

The “eyes bigger than my stomach” syndrome followed me into adulthood and even showed up early on in my sex life when I went to buy a sex toy at the local sex shop. I guess you could have called it “eyes bigger than butthole” syndrome by this point.  Oh no, I couldn’t be sensible and buy a normal-sized 5 or 6 inch dildo, I had to have the mega huge Rascal.  I remember stopping by the Revco for a six-pack of D batteries and rushing home with my treasure. 


(rather rude looking, ain't it?)


After sticking it to the bathroom floor with the suction cup at the base, I flipped it on and coated it with Vaseline before I slowly sat down on the buzzing, squirming rubber cock. I don’t know what happened but my ass locked down on that thing and wouldn't let go. It was kind of like when two dogs get stuck together.


Little Ken- "Momma, why are those dogs trying to play leap-frog ? Can I pull them apart ?"


Momma - "Hush-up and don't touch those nasty thangs !" Yelling at my father, "Lester, go get the garden hose and squirt those nasty dogs !"


 I guess too more suction or my bowels went into shock or something. I tried and tried pulling it out but the pain was so intense I though I going to die. Talk about doing some praying. I offered God everything I could think of if he’d just let the Rascal come out of my butt. I could just see me calling 911 over this and news of it getting back to my father (a southern Baptist minister, mind you)!

Oh Lord, that would have been an ugly scene. 

Finally after about 30 minutes, I slowly worked it all the way out and was none the worse for wear save for a sore ass for a couple of days. To this day, I've never used a dildo on myself again and you know what, I don’t miss it at all.

I hope everybody had a good Thanksgiving. I was away from home house-sitting for the whole week but I did manage to seek back home and have a really nice, quiet Thanksgiving dinner with my mom and lovely niece, Miranda.

Hugz to all.


1 comment:

cuppatea said...

The mere fact that the dildo was called "rascal" was a dead giveaway that it'd be trouble!

Hilarious post,i loved it!