what happens after you desperately try not to wet yourself
'twas, I recall, in my schooldays a much cherished tradition to meet after the last day of school before summer on a remote field, to conserve all the impressions and lectures of the year in alcohol. This “Schoolendparty” was organized by those who had just graduated, and so there were no watchdogs or adults whatsoever, which caused even the otherwise good natured and abstinent folks to get drunk, and make love to each other or get irritatingly aggressive over something minor.
My friend Chris however was drunk basically all year long, so he took it upon himself to break the world record in beer drinking that evening, even though he didn’t really know how much beer he had to devour for this. He was joined by my other friend Roland.
Both soon discovered that the actual limitation to drinking cheap brewery dishwater is not so much the alcohol than it is the capacity of ones bladder. So every couple of minutes both competitors were headed for the bushes to relieve themselves.
It was, I think, after the sixteenth beer, that Chris returned from the loo in a slightly odd fashion. Instead of sitting down with us, he asked us to pass him the next beer, while a foul smell was spreading around. Considering our state, it may be surprising that it wasn’t too long until we noticed the brown brew that was running from under his pants. While relieving himself he must have lost control over his sphincter, which he however did not want to admit, even after we had confronted him with the obvious indications.
It was then, that we noticed, the last bus home for the night was gone. So we made the best of the situation, and indulged in general stupidity, which might be told some other time. Anyway, after one night of drinking, spastic dance moves, vandalizing in the nearby town and mysteriously not being arrested by a passing police officer we wanted to get on the bus and go home. The bus driver however wouldn’t let us in, as he had just cleaned all the seats, he told us. Even though I in the meantime had regained my pants that I had lost at some point during the night, I could understand where he was coming from, so we had to take an eight mile walk home, which isn’t so bad, as long as you haven’t shat yourself several hours ago, and the poo has already started to build up a solid crust around your sphincter. So Chris tried to just spread his legs, and edge forward one side of his entire body at a time, as to minimize the resulting friction in the pelvic area.
Christ still didn’t want to admit anything, so my still very drunk comment, if everything was alright with his arse wasn’t taken in very good humour. Hours later we arrived in the small village we were living in, where his mother already awaited us. Reproachfully she reminded Chris he had to go to Tennis training. He tried to tell her he wasn’t well and everything, but she just said “Oh come on, Chrissi. Next week’s the championships. You want to be prepared for that, don’t you.”
I will never forget the look of sheer desperation and then resignation as he plummeted on the car seat to find not everything in his pants had dried up as much as the part around his sphincter…
(Boor, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 11:28, 1 reply)

Eurgh
Ye christ, thats morbid.
(Guilt wants to get in your moist confines, Sat 17 Nov 2007, 14:13, closed)