Being your average, ordinary everyday bad ass, I have used many a bathroom in my time. Be it for the intricacies of wash closet architecture or for secluded enclaves to woo buck toothed hookers, I’ve enjoyed them all, in one way or another. Though, mostly for pissing, shitting …and prostitutes.
Sometimes, I’ve even enjoyed the pleasantries of an outdoor commode experience and it’s life lessons. It’s a rare but, one that must be done and goes along with being a man of superior stock. One of overwhelming bad assedness, such as myself, must shirk the obligations of pleasuring beautiful women, being admired by common men and punching non-coolness in it’s dick from time to time, in order to maintain a high level of excellence. A short sabbatical into the wilderness is a great venue to flex both my daunting wit and brawn. Plus, women love the shit out of burly, sweaty guys chopping wood…stuff with tents around. It’s why lumberjacks get so much ass. Even the ugly ones.
It was during such an excursion that I learned something peculiar, about both nature and my fellow man—and what an unfeeling bastard he can be.
Night falls quickly in the woods, and as I was finishing my hike to my campsite, dusk was sapping the sky of it’s daylight. So, I had just enough time to pitch a tent (non-boner type) and make camp. Night was falling and I worked to build a fire, when, suddenly, the urge to take a HUGE dump consumed me. Rather than panic and shit in a bucket or cup, I proceeded as nature intended; squatting in brush, swatting away bugs…and straining.
Brooks Brothers cargo shorts around my ankles, I had just assumed the position, when I heard a low growl. My cat like ninja reflexes and years of outdoor experience kicked into gear. Deftly, I abandoned my shorts and ran screaming, like a man…in a high pitched fashion and flailing my arms, while repeating, “God, please, don’t let it eat my balls! I love my balls!”.
Racing in a ziggy-zagging route, I jumped upon the first tree my manly tear soaked eyes could focus on. I scrambled up and clung for dear life. Between manly sobs, I relaxed, but, not for long. Below, a bear had appeared and was gnashing it’s teeth and clawing up at me. It let out a deafening roar. My years of experience rushed to my aid. I knew what had to be done. I yelped in a manly, crying tone and voided my bowels…right in it’s angry, furry, bastard bear face. Needless to say…it was a little confused. Chuffing and grunting, it dropped to the ground swiping at it’s face and instinctively licking…and wishing it hadn’t.
The sound of a rifle cracked in the air. A dart struck the shitty bear in it’s neck. It moaned and slumped down and began breathing heavily. Looking down, a forest ranger had entered the clearing. He, with a confused look that rivaled the bears, walked over to the tree I was in. We looked at each other for a moment. He with his rifle, me naked from the waist down. Suddenly, he broke the awkward silence. “Did you…shit on that bear?”
I learned two very important pieces of advice that day. One: bears don’t understand what’s happening when a human shit hits their face. If you can shit, directly on their face, you might escape. Two: Never trust a forest ranger with a “shitting on a bear” secret! They don’t have a “ranger-client confidentiality agreement” They just (laughingly) tell other rangers about your bear shitting activities. BE WARNED!…the bastards.
Elton, a steamy sexual dynamo, is a comedy writing loser from Pennsylvania. He’s the author of several failed attempts at books, cartoons and occasionally writes articles at Funnyordie for Will Ferrell to ignore. You can check out more of his pants shittingly funny mumbling at Elton Says Things (his super tits blog!) What that means…he doesn’t even know.