The IBS Diaries Vol. 23
Welcome back after a brief month-long intermission to shit story #23. Jordan volume. We’re coming back strong after the mid-season break with a guy going full Donald Duck in public. No pants party live from the Shell parking lot. Let’s do our best to show our support for Anonymous from Staten Island as he takes the stand.
After having spent a summer weekend in the Hamptons testing the limits of human alcohol consumption, I was forced to attend a family meal/birthday celebration in Brooklyn on Sunday afternoon. After suffering through a brutally hungover drive through 4 hours of traffic on the L.I.E., I arrived at the party and indulged like the hungover degenerate that I was (am).
Can’t go wrong being hungover at a family rager. Food everywhere, hair of the dog beers, and a “Cousin Walk” to finish you off. Next thing you know you’re crunk sitting next to your mom and Grandma. Good as new. Highly recommend everyone breaks into a few diet Millers the night before the next family birthday darty.
After devouring everything from calamari to baked clams, to veal parm and finally a large cannoli (side note also lactose intolerant but I was too hungover to refuse the cannoli) I departed from the restaurant by myself in my car ready to make the drive back to Jersey. As I was crossing the bridge to Staten Island I was hit with the first warning alarm.
My city doesn’t do Burroughs so I can’t say I’ve ever done grace period ferry rides (in addition to IBS I also get sea sick so dodged a bullet on that one), but a nearby body of water under these conditions is an easy Plan B. Not saying to necessarily drop one in the middle of a beach volleyball game, but the accompanying nature of the lake is what makes it a halfway okay emergency exit area. I mean if you think you have enough time left to be able to shit normally then by all means, but if not then keep that one in the Notes app for a later day.
Thinking I was a veteran, I chalked this up to a warning shot and thought that I would have plenty of time to make it home and unleash hell in the comfort of my own bathroom and utilize home field advantage. I was sorely mistaken as not even 10 minutes later on the West Shore Expressway I was hit with the dreaded 2 minute warning sweats.
The 2 minute warning sweats are up there in the Mt. Rushmore of Bad Sweats. Standing in no order next to the Hit in the Balls sweats, the Scaries sweats, and the Too High sweats. Throw in The Upper Lip sweats in addition to any of those and it’s game over. 5 minutes to live. Just a terrible symptom to develop mid-grace period and we should all be panicking for this man.
After cutting through 3 lanes of traffic to get off the highway I was tasked with finding a bathroom in an unfamiliar area with less than 90 seconds to go. As luck would have it like an oasis in the dessert the shiny light of an Exxon station appeared on the next block. After running a red light to get there in time (Got that ticket from the red light camera in the mail 2 weeks later) I flew into the exxon an immediately asked where the restroom was. He pointed behind the attached convenience store to a door labelled “Restroom.” It was here where I made the dreaded mistake of counting my chickens before they hatched.
A red light ticket during the home stretch is a devastating drop in morale. You have a $75 tab, pre-shit. You basically lost already. But you never want to shit in your pants if you don’t have to. Free advice. 30 seconds remaining in the 4th for Anonymous.
As I approached the door, I saw the most dreaded sight for any IBS sufferer. An “out of order sign” taped over the locked bathroom door. It was at this point I knew I was fucked. No time to call an audible the only thing on my mind was finding a semi-secluded spot to release. A family in a minivan had also pulled into the gas station shortly after me and was looking at me thinking I was insane for running around a gas station. A quick glance around provided absolutely no spots of cover and merely an empty New York Sports Club parking lot adjacent to the gas station.
From seeing a bathroom door in the flesh to power walking around in a club parking lot unbuckling your belt 10 seconds later. Life comes at you fast. The Out of Order sign wins every time, all the time. Always a record-scratching moment in a diary. It’s hard core improv from there on out. Just find an area to 2 at that won’t land you in someone else’s snap story and you’ve already won half the war.
As I felt my asshole begin to crown, I sprinted over to that parking lot prarie-dog style (hand holding asshole) and dropped trou. Liked a kinked up garden hose the contents of my stomach from that weekend spewed out of me leaving a murder-scene-like splatter pattern in the front of the parking lot around the vicinity of my squat. It was then I noticed that I was in full view of both the gas station attendant and the family in the minivan. Did they catch a glimpse of my twig and berries? You’re goddamn right they did. Did I care at the moment? You’re goddamn right I didn’t.
I mean you should definitely care, but I get it. You’re just super relieved to not have to ditch a pair of boxers in a Citgo mini garbage can again. Never gets easier. But let’s not be pre-cumming here either. You may have not had an accident, but you’re still defecating in a sports club parking lot.
Tasked with the thought of cleanup it was then I noticed that my prairie-dog walk was not as effective as I thought as my boxer briefs resembled a middle school cafeteria after a food fight on chocolate mousse day. After waddling back to my car in my shitty underwear I grabbed the few pieces remaining from my emergency paper towel roll and began to asses the cleanup. I discarded my shitty boxers and went full Winnie the Poo in an empty parking lot (Shirt on top nothing below the waist) I began to cleanup what had leaked into my pants. To say I was ill equipped is a gross understatement. Imagine cleaning a muddy boot with a single Q-tip.
Going full Pooh Bear at a gas station like that is just criminal. Just so we’re all on the same page. You have to at least get back on your horse and look for another restroom to take a hand soap shower in/dispose of the evidence before just going dick out for the boys like this. Again we don’t judge here, but I feel like I almost had to address that for self awareness purposes.
Finally, I aborted the mission completely, discarded both my pants and boxer briefs cleaned myself as best I could and walked back to the car still in Winnie the Poo dress and retrieved my emergency gym shorts. Sorry to anyone who decided to be a productive member of society and get a Monday morning workout in at the Staten Island NYSC you saw evidence of the lowest form of humanity in that parking lot that morning. For any tri-state stoolies who drive in Staten Island, tip your cap to the NYSC on 440 and let it be a reminder to all never underestimate the initial warning shot. All in all, got a $50 red light ticket, lost my dignity, my favorite pair of slacks, a pair of boxer briefs, and definitely stole the innocent of the kids in that van. Viva!
Some truly mood-changing repercussions in the end here. Potential witnesses turned actual witnesses, a fallen pair of boxers and pants, kids in the audience? Strong D- on a U.S. grading scale. Extra points were awarded for no interior car damages. Thank you for revving the courage up to share your story with us this week Anonymous from Staten Island, to the rest of IBS America – send in your diaries to firstname.lastname@example.org or @DannyJConrad for next week.
IBS Diaries Vol 5: Blizzard Beach
IBS Diaries Vol 6: Hotel HotBox
IBS Diaries Vol 8: Fried Egg Run
The IBS Diaries Vol. 9: The IBS Queen
The IBS Diaries Vol. 13: In-Bathroom Accidents
The IBS Diaries Vol. 16: Caught Brown-Handed
The IBS Diaries Vol. 17: Costume Party
The IBS Diaries Vol. 18: Frozen Solids