Poop Report

One day, as I was skipping merrily down the street, I felt a twinge in my nether regions. As I wondered whaty could be the cause of my symptoms, I remembered the large quantities of laxatives I had been taking to work off the 50 pounds I had gained when I met Pierre, my Polynesian lover. Due to his whale blubber and xheese sandwiches, I'd packed on quite a large amount of poundage.

So, to help me fit back into my size 17 leather pants, I'd been downing those laxatives like they were tic-tacs. The combined strength of said pills hit me like a tidal wave: I looked around. No bathroom in sight. Blast! I really had to shit.

I started to moan, and the people surrounding me gave me odd looks. I felt like a porn star exxcept without the porn. I dove behind Fred teh homeless man's cart, and, seeing that I could brace myself against the cart, I knew I had found a safe shitting haven.

As I struggled to unbutton my muumuu, I excreted all over myself. It collected into my muumuu. I felt surrounded by a sea of my own eexcrement. It was perhaps the best and worst moment of my day: finally, the extra weight was gone. Alas, I was covered in poop and smelled worse than the underside of a 700-lb man's moob.

Anyways, the moral of the story is not to make love with Polynesian men. It's not just sex, it's a fight for survival!

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The day after, as I found my way home through the alleys, not wanting to show my shameful self to the poo-free world, I found myself wandering through Guillermo's backyard. I happened to glance into the living room and saw the Mexican hombre of mis suenos! Oh, Dios mio, a man who could handle my cravings for refried bean fetish sex.

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