Shit Fit!

http://thethrillsociety.com is your link to Thrilling Stuff! This article is just a taste!

A Stumbling Otis Original 

This took place a long, long time ago. I was about seven and I had a shit fit, at least that’s what my Dad called it.

A fucking bad day is what I called it. I was a farm boy. I grew up working, that’s why my parents had me; to do shit. After marriage they waited seven years, till the chores piled up, before Ma popped me in the oven. There was a plan, believe me. I was no accident of passion; no awkward, backseat hotshot.

Anyway, it was hay season, late summer and hot. August soil thin as dirty flour stuck in every pore. The dry scratch of the dusty air was amplified by wheat chafe; it made you itch on the inside. There was no shade in sight. Though only in early elementary I had roll to play, I was driving. I would put our pick-up truck in first gear, pop the clutch and start idling down the field. The men would then walk beside, loading straw bales as we went. Bale after bale, hour after hour we worked. My dad and uncle throwing sixty pound bundles of dead grain up to my Grandpa, in the bed of the vehicle, stacking the cubes; doing the working man’s version of Tetris.

YOU HAVE HEARD THE TERM – BUM FUCK

Well, we were somewhere past that. Literally, we were in the middle of nowhere; 25 miles from a town, six miles from the nearest random ranch house. We had exactly what we brought with us, nothing more; no cell phones, and no 7-11 down the block, no AAA with a shiny blue and yellow tow truck to roll up and save the day. We were goddamn plainsman, the stuff Marlboro commercials are made of. In Webster’s under ‘rugged individualists’ you’d see a picture of my Uncle Jim heaving a bale while my little, blonde self was peek-a-booing over the steering wheel. We are working men and at seven I was a valuable member of the team. Pretty big deal for a boy.

CLIMATE CHANGE OCCURS IN A SECOND

I didn’t start the day sick, but something happened. Suddenly, I had to poop. Not your standard civilian “gee, I think I need to go”, I had to shit! Right then, it was not an option, it was happening. Let me be clear, bodily functions out-of-doors are a non-issue for me but I was panicked and embarrassed, basically horrified. It wasn’t sanitation, it was pride. To be a boy included and needed by men, your own family is a badass feeling for a kid. The last thing I wanted to do was crap myself when hanging with the dudes.

I stopped the pickup, yelled for my dad. He ushered me to the front of the pickup, and scrambled for toilet paper, napkins, rags whatever….

I tore at my pants but there was no time, I tried to lean back but my diarrhea had charted a path with extreme velocity. Foul, acid gravy filled my undies and pants
bundled around my ankles, soaked into my socks and shoes. It dripped down my skinny, pale legs like caustic egg yolk. It was a certifiable, unabashed fucking MESS!

There was no saving the cloths. Had they been weaved from the Golden Fleece, stitched with the hair of angels and buttoned with diamonds those pants would have been cast to wilds.

“Take’em off! You can wrap up in one of my flannel shirts,” said my truly sympathetic father. My uncle and my Grandpa were keeping their respective distances at the back of the truck. I peeled off the shit covered garments, shoes, socks and all; everything but a ragged t-shirt. I was buck naked below the waist, narrow white ass and pinky dick in the wind. The toilet paper was sticking to my legs as the hot wind dried the shit like yellow lava flow. I was tearful and shamed, stomach aching with a hot coal for a b-hole; I consider this a bit of a low point.

THEN THE HORSEFLIES ARRIVE

This was cow country, when fresh shit hits the wind armadas of insects take flight. Primarily this means large, ugly, wicked creatures called we called “horseflies”. They bite with malice leaving heavy welts that itch for days. They swarm to fresh poop intent to lay their demon eggs. Not only did I have feces splattered around me in the field dirt but it was still coating my naked legs.

Things went very wrong from here……… tragically, epically, fucking wrong. The first few flies were hardly noticed, I was trying to collect myself, clean myself and roust the courage to wear my father’s flannel shirt like a kilt. I causally brushed away those early insect Argonauts, but soon, one was four and then four was twelve. Exponentially they came. I started to slap and swat, they were landing all over my legs, flying between them, buzzing my groin.

Read more at: http://thethrillsociety.com/shit-fit/