TMI Thursday: A Valentine's Story

This is a story not for the faint-of-heart. Thanks to GregoryJ, the Puking Pumpkin should warn those of you with weak constitutions to stay away. For the rest of us, feel free to enjoy the following story. And, if you want more awesome tales of debauchery, check out Lilu's home and read other awesomely bad TMI Thursdays!

I'm not one to hate Valentine's Day. I mean, yeah, there's no proof that any Saint Valentine was in the Roman dungeons marrying Christians (turns out, there were maybe a dozen different dudes named Valentine who could have fit the bill), and I've told you before how St. Valentine's Day was linked to love based pretty much solely on the fact that Valentine's Day and the time when birds started mating coincided. Horny birds, for the win.

But, I like Valentine's Day, a little. Mostly because I can buy chocolate. And then eat it. Well, I can do that any day, but this is a nice excuse.

Plus, I enjoy the sex.

See, my lady is one of those types who, if you ply her with just the right amount of chocolates, coffee, cards with monkeys on them AND gift cards to her favorite stores, will open her thighs just enough for me to have a romping good time for three minutes before the crying and sobbing begins.

This was how I intended to spend my Valentine's Day.

Everything started off just dutchy. The children let me sleep in, my wife made coffee AND cranberry scones (heart-shaped, even), and after breakfast, my wife and I curled up together in bed.

Oh boy I thought, rubbing my hands together mentally, let the sexy time commence!

However, instead of sexy time, we fell into a blissful, exciting "nappy time". And not the kind of nappy that got Don Imus fired, but the kind that, as a parent, you relish whenever you can manage to steal a few minutes here or there.

I felt the mattress shaking, rousting me from my blissful dreams. It was my wife, going to the bathroom.

Huzzah! I told myself, dastardly twirling the ends of a mental handlebar mustache with a finger, she'll come back with no panties on and the sexy time shall commence!

My wife indeed did return to the bed. As she slipped beneath the covers, fully taking advantage of my body heat, she whispered in my ear. As her breath fell upon my flesh, my thighs quivered.

"You'll be happy to know," she said, softly, "that my period started during my nap."

I could almost hear that flushing sound effect played on the Price is Right when someone overbids on a product as the meaning of her words sank through my thick and healthy skull.

I sighed.

But then I brightened.

Hmmmm... I thought, pulling a mental cloak up over my features, hunching to the side and exiting stage right, perhaps this can be salvaged. Yes, perhaps there will be hand jobs, and blow jobs. Oh, and perhaps there will even be some naughty videos watched. Oh, yes, there is still potential. Sexy time has not yet been scuppered. Oh no, it has not!

We continued through the day, going to the library, grocery shopping, even delivering some Girl Scout cookies. All was well. We came home. Dinner was being prepared. And, oh, it was delicious. A nice little pasta dish with some diced chicken breast, some chopped up tomatoes, and some pesto sauce. Oh, it was a culinary delight!

And then, as dinner wound down, my bowels started winding up.

A look of terror struck my face as I felt something drop into my lower intestine, which was followed quickly by the gurgling sounds of a drain pulling a vortex of water into its gaping maw. Excusing myself, I went and sat upon my throne, ruling over the world I saw. I felt the pressure, but nothing was produced. I stood, and suddenly, with the weight of my viscera pressing down upon my bowels, things began to move. I sat back down and delivered a plug as solid and dense as concrete into the bottom of the bowl. I cleaned up, thought nothing more of it, and went about my business.

I went to the other bathroom, used primarily by the children, and began running a bath for my son. As I was shutting off the water, I felt a build-up, as if gas were trying to release itself from my nether regions. As my son was getting into the tub, I eased my backside a bit, thinking to release the tiniest of farts.

Immediately, I knew product was behind the pressure.

I threw myself upon the stool in the bathroom and proceeded to fountain liquid shit from my backside. The sound was one that I can only describe as a ripe watermelon being tossed into a wood chipper. As I finished up the first salvo, I leaned over to rinse my son's hair, breaking the seal my ass had on the bowl, and releasing some of the foulest, nastiest stink I've ever had the misfortune to experience into the atmosphere. Tears came to my eye, and I quickly replaced my ass on the seat to try and keep the stench held within.

I remained thus, occasionally depositing more liquid shit into the bowl, until my son was finished with his bath. I handed him the towel and helped him dry off. I sent him to his room to find some pajamas.

I quickly cleaned myself up and flushed away my shame.

I knew now that my plans had been dashed not only upon the rocky shores of Monthly Menstruation, but also upon the plains of Persistent Diarrhea Stench. Putting my kids to bed, I kissed their foreheads, wished them sweet dreams, and returned to my own room. I immediately stripped and showered, the hot water cleansing both my body and spirit. Finished, smelling remarkably better, I dressed for the night and crawled into bed, a beaten, sexually frustrated man.

The next day, when people asked me how my Valentine's Day went, I told them, with utmost honesty:

"Shitty".