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When nature calls…in nature

August 1, 2009

(If good old-fashioned poop humor offends you, then cast thine eyes away from this post, dear reader, for there is poop humor to be had herein.)

“Someone I know” is training for a marathon in October.

I know.  It’s amazing.  And inspiring. 

In fact, I find marathons to be such magnificent feats of atheticism and dedication that my eyes once welled up with tears upon witnessing a horde of marathoners running through the streets of Chicago.  It’s just that moving to me.

So, because of my respect for said athleticism and decication, and because I love this “someone I know,” I wholeheartedly support this person’s efforts to train for his upcoming marathon. 

I mean, he’s up at four in the morning every Saturday just so that he can go and run more miles than I’ve probably logged in my entire life.  How can I not be amazed and supportive of that?

Anyway, when “someone I know” came home today (from running eighteen miles, I might add), he asked if I could have his permission to tell me a disgusting yet funny story.

‘Someone I know,’ I’m eating breakfast right now, and I’d really like to keep it in my stomach.  You’ve already told me about how your nipples were chafing today because you didn’t put cream on them before your run.  Can’t your next over-share wait until after I finish my toast?”

(By the way, that part about nipple-chafing is not only totally, disgustingly true but also totally, disgustingly common for long-distance runners.  Reason #93 that I’ll never follow in “someone I know’s” admittedly admirable footsteps.)

But then “someone I know” (or “SIK”) got this little glimmer in his eyes, and I knew he was going to go ahead and tell the story anyway.

“See, I got lost on the way to the new trail I was running on today, and by the time I finally found my way there, I really had to poop.  I mean, reeeeeaaaallllly had to poop.”

“SIK, please don’t tell me you crapped in your pants and then ran eighteen miles.”

“No, no, not in my pants.  But I knew that I wasn’t going to make it to the nearest gas station before it came to that.  But see, I also couldn’t find a port-a-let…”

“No, SIK, no…”

“So I grabbed some scrap paper out of the back of the car…”

“No, no, no…”

“And found some trash cans in the woods and squatted behind them.  But then when I was finished, the sun was starting to come up a bit, and I could see a little better…”

“Please, SIK, please don’t tell me that some park ranger or (god forbid) a child caught you taking a shit behind a garbage can.”

“No, no, no one saw me.  It’s just that…well, what I thought were trash cans were actually the port-a-lets.  So I took a dump behind the port-a-let.”

And this is where I fell onto the floor and began laughing so hard that I was afraid that my breakfast was going to come back up.  And I started laughing even harder when SIK said,

“Man, someone’s going to think there was some strange dog behind the port-a-lets today.”

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6 Comments leave one →
  1. renbeth permalink
    August 2, 2009 7:39 am

    Way to preserve the anonymity of “someone you know” :).

  2. BirthingBeautifulIdeas permalink*
    August 2, 2009 9:39 am

    Thankfully, SIK gave me permission to blog about his poo-in-the-woods story. Otherwise…well, I still would have told it, I just would have left out the parts about loving him and whatnot. 🙂

  3. Jenny permalink
    August 4, 2009 4:08 pm

    OMG that is awesome!!! SIK is my hero!

  4. Paul permalink
    August 4, 2009 6:04 pm

    I guess I didn’t realize they made 7 foot tall garbage cans. Thanks for sharing…. I think

  5. BirthingBeautifulIdeas permalink*
    August 4, 2009 6:21 pm

    SIK has gotten that comment a lot, Paul. Supposedly, it was some sort of 7-foot-tall port-a-let enclave. And he thought that trash cans sometimes sit behind 7-foot-tall enclaves. Yeah…

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