I take you back to 1989 when yes, I was a wee lad of 19. (I’m old motherfuckers, I know that. No need to point it out.) Having just won the Teenage Mr. Maryland Bodybuilding contest I was determined to become a professional bodybuilder.
To meet this lofty goal I decided to forego school and focus on a career that would help further my endeavor.
I got a job at GNC.
At the time, GNC was a place where bodybuilders purchased their protein shakes, teenage boys bought their supplements before they met the bodybuilders who sold them steroids, and freaky vegan and hippy types bought their herbs in the hopes that they could put some color in their sickly, pasty skin.
My salary was a whopping $6.00/hr plus “spiffs”. The spiffs were commissions based on selling certain products on which GNC made a higher profit. Those were primarily the low-quality house brands that they had produced in 3rd world countries. Is there a great deal of protein in powdered dog?
I was the king of spiffs. More useless products flowed through that GNC during my tenure than in all the years since time (or GNC) began. If you questioned me about the efficacy of a product I would listen intently, pick up a container of the very same item, pretend to read everything on the label while looking at the spiff code, and then give my expert recommendation based on whether that, or a “better” product would generate another $2.00 toward my next paycheck.
“No sir, that particular item does, in fact, increase your lean muscle tissue by increasing your ability to metabolize the amino acids in your diet while simultaneously improving your stamina and decreasing subcutaneous stores of bodyfat. But (looking at another spiff code) THIS one does it longer, faster, cheaper and is buy-one-get-one-half-off. Will you be needing an anti-oxidant with that today?”
Can anyone say salesman numero uno? I sold so much that, when they implemented a new policy that stated everyone had to wear a tie, I continued to wear t-shirts. The manager threatened to fire me. I told him to go for it. Then he told the regional manager who came in to have a talk with me. He solved the problem with a brilliant decisiveness…he stopped scheduling the manager to be there when I was working. Now I had GNC to myself. At 19 I had effectively made the GNC manager a mere figurehead, securing the schedule that I wanted and getting to work all by my loneseome. I was not yet king but rest assured, I sat firmly, albeit alone, on the throne. That very thought would come to haunt me sooner than I expected.
GNC was in White Flint Mall, very close to an entrance. Next to it was a Gingiss Formal Wear and directly across the corridor, Burger King. As an aspiring young Arnold, I didn’t eat at Burger King. I sat on the counter at GNC eating my tuna and watching the fat people and families get their Whoppers “their way”. Every so often some slovenly family with their overweight kids would all come out wearing those paper crowns. The Burger Kings. I almost pulled a hamstring when I’d fall off the counter in hysterics. The only reason I ever entered Burger King was to use the restroom. Our little toilet at GNC didn’t work. I’d perfected the art of sprinting across the hall, peeing and running back within about 40 seconds. I never even missed a customer. Skills baby, I got skills.
So one day I was running late for work and didn’t bring any food with me. This sucked because I was used to eating about every 2 hours. My shift was 6 hours long. FUCK! I’m gonna starve. But then I thought…hmmmm, we’ve got all these protein bars and energy bars that people seem to love. I’ll just try a few of those. I opened one and took a bite.
I pick another and tear it open. Bite.
I proceed to eat one bite of almost 20 different protein bars looking for ONE that’s fucking edible. This simply does not EXIST!
But at this point I’m kinda full so I say fuck it, I’ll starve a few hours. Won’t kill me. I might deplete a quarter inch off of my bicep but I’ll eat two entire chickens when I get home to make up for it. Nothing will stop my impending hugeness. NOTHING! Moments after I silently and maniacally screamed the word “NOTHING” in my head, I felt funny. In my tummy.
Have you ever watched pea soup start to bubble? Slowly at first and then with increasing rapidity and intensity? That was my poor stomach.
As the first bead of sweat dripped down my forehead I took off faster than an boy scout troop being chased by the NAMBLA track team. I literally plowed my way through The Home of the Whopper, smashing all 200 pounds of myself through the bathroom door, sliding into the bathroom stall while simultaneously dropping my pants and locking the door. Even in that advanced state of bowel distress, my compulsive cleanliness and aversion to germs kicked in, so instead of sitting down, I squatted. Welcome to a new level of shitting.
We’ve all heard catchy terms for diarrhea…
Fire-rhea- when it’s hot, it’s hot.
Shwater- incorporates both shit and water
and one of my favorites….
Shitting pure lava rocks
I laugh at you puny amateurs and your weak terms of defecation.
Behold THE BK BLASTER.
As I released my tightly clamped ass cheeks I think I experienced the sense of relief a bazooka might feel when someone pulls the trigger. Or perhaps a flamethrower would be more apropos. A flamethrowing bazooka if you will. Will you? Should you? I wouldn’t if I were you.
The sounds and feelings that were coming out of my ass were scaring me. At one point I was positive that some important internal organs had liquified and were shooting into a Burger King toilet.
“I once got busy in a Burger King bathroom”…Humpty ain’t got nothing on me.
Well, after what I believe to have been about 10 minutes or more of leg tiring, stomach cramping, full body sweating agony of my anus, it stopped. I squeezed, I puckered, I pushed…that was it. I was spent. So I reached for a handful of the cheap sandpaper that BK calls tp and took the first swipe.
It looked like I’d dipped the TP in a bucket of brown paint. And it was all the way off to the sides of the paper which meant that it had spread across my ass. I grabbed more and I wiped, and I wiped, and I wiped, and I wiped and now I think I’m gonna cry cuz I’ve stopped wiping the crack and I’m wiping my actual cheeks which seem to be just as bad as my crack. OHGODI’MGOINGTOPUKE. I have shit pretty much from the back of my knee caps to the small of my back. It took me longer to wipe myself than it did for me to eat the fucking protein bars, run to BK and take the fucking shit in the first place. I need a shower and a nap. Finally, I get a few clean swipes with the paper and at least feel like my soiling of myself won’t be obvious to the rest of the world. I stand, pull up my pants and turn toward the toilet.
Some poor Burger King employee is quitting today.
It looked like someone had thrown a shit grenade into the stall. The toilet itself had turned from white to brown. There was shit on the floor, shit on the sides of the stall and shit, I shit you not, about 2 feet up the wall above the toilet. I had never seen such devastation.
I imagined this conversation:
BK Mgr: Charlie, can you go check the bathrooms?
Charlie: Sure boss, I’ll do it now.
10 seconds later Charlie emerges from the bathroom.
BK Mgr: Is it clean?
Charlie: Fuck you, I quit.
I quickly washed my hands and sped from the bathroom praying that no one had seen me. I don’t embarrass easily but destroying an entire bathroom stall with public knowledge makes me slightly uncomfortable (as you can tell by the way I’m publishing this blog. duh). I ran back to GNC which was full of customers waiting for me. The first belligerent lady bitched me out for abandoning the store. About halfway through her diatribe I started imagining myself jumping up on the counter, dropping my pants and screaming,
FREEZE MOTHERFUCKERS OR EVERYONE GETS BLASTED.
Thus, the legend of the BK Blaster was born.
Category: Classic Stories
About the Author (Author Profile)
I’m a writer, blogger, comedian, and all around genius.