| James Stafford |
The Sawing of the Yule Log As soon as it nuzzled its pointy little head up to the backside of my asshole, I could tell from its lava-like heat that it was going to be a stinker; a mean, foul- smelling meat-eater’s turd. A traditional yule log. Its presence had been a growing burden on my gut all night. Now, like the Christmas baby it was, it had reached the end of its incubation period and I couldn’t wait for that puppy to slide down the skids, out of my life. It had forced me into a unscheduled stop, and I had a deadline to meet. A lot of people are depending on me. You see, my name is Claus. Santa Claus. I carry a bag. As my Yule-night extrusion began it’s quick and greasy skid down the chute, I anticipated the satisfying plop of aquatic resolution. It never came. Either my turd had managed to execute a flawless Olympic-class dive from my ass into the porcelain pool below, or... I shuddered at the thought, but I had to face facts: I had a trailer. A big one. I spread my legs and bent forward to inspect my pale bottomlands, to see what was reflected in the calm pool below. It was ugly: a shiny, dark pillar of caca rose like a fat snake... a serpent whose cobra-like head was lodged deep in my rectum, its dark body coiled beneath the still waters. Its dorsal side broke the surface in spots, so that the scene resembled nothing so much as a lagoon of beached whales. Wisps of steam rose from the polluted waters. It was a behemoth, a massive serpentine tube of stink. I can usually handle the smell of my own shit - it’s those Other People that stink up the bathroom, right? – But this time my eyes watered and my nose burned. I don’t know if it was the quality or quantity, but the new arrival had overwhelmed my defenses. I could scarcely breathe without gagging. But to gag would be a luxury I could not afford. To gag was to risk waking the inhabitants of this middle-class split-level ranch. You see, Santa’s sleep enchantment is a mild one. In the old days, I could put everyone in the house out of commission until morning, but there were these frivolous lawsuits (I swear, I never touched that woman’s underwear drawer!) so the spell I cast now is the equivalent of a Tylenol PM. What next? I had a standard protocol for this situation: flush, let the water do its thing, allow the twin mysteries of indoor plumbing and the Coriolis effect perform a clean disconnect with minimal risk of cross-contamination. Fat chance- This was no fancy Koehler porcelain pony I was riding. I was squatting atop an off-brand 1.6 gallon dribble-pot, a piss-poor receptacle barely able to swallow the cute pooplets of a five-year-old, much less the prodigious bowl-busting discharge of a full-sized cookie-gorged man. I considered executing the venerable tail wag maneuver, a short, sharp left-to-right wiggle, but this was not without peril. A break too close to the water would leave me with a dangerous baton-like appendage jutting from my ass that would demand manual intervention. Maybe you think I’m being squeamish, but you have to understand: without magic, Santa’s Annual Road-trip is a washout. And nothing kills magic like shit. You know how Superman loses his powers in the presence of Green Kryptonite? Santa’s Kryptonite comes in various shades of brown. It was more than I could handle on my own. But where do you turn for help in such an awkward situation? The reindeer were up on the roof chewing their cuds, and the elves... well; don’t get me started on union labor contracts. It was then that I noticed a couple of rolled up pages of old classifieds on the floor. One ad jumped out at me: #2 PROBLEMS? 24 HR DEFECATION RESCUE LINE 18005551212. It was a toll-free call. I had nothing to lose. I pulled out my cell and punched in the number. I had to wend my way through the menu: ‘no’ to presence of blood, large foreign objects or dysentery (call 911), ‘no’ to constipation, ‘yes’ to size- and volume-related issues. I was put on hold, and I’m happy to report that I wasn’t subjected to “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” a second time. “Happy Holidays, Defecation Rescue, Chad speakin’ how can I help ya.” “Hi, umm... Well, I mean...” “Look, mister.” Chad had a young but reassuring voice, the kind of voice you’d want to get you through a difficult Christmas dump. “You may as well get right to it, there’s no reason to be embarrassed. Trust me. I’ve heard it all. The holidays are the peak season for T.U.R.D. situations.” “What the hell is a T.U.R.D. situation?” “Transient Urgent Rectal Difficulty. T, U, R, D. Just to give you some idea, my last call was a fifty-year-old accountant with a glass reindeer ornament up his ass. Donder, I think.” “Sounds more like Cupid...” “What’s that?” “Er, I said, ‘no shit...’” “Heh. You got that right. Leastways, not ‘til after the surgery. So. What’s your issue?” “I got a massive hanging trailer. Really, really bad.” “Ah, wrestling with the old Christmas python, eh?” “The Loch Ness monster, more like. Damn thing looks like it’s trying to crawl out of the freakin’ toilet. And I’m afraid to pull the chain on it because of substandard equipment.” “Hm. I see. So, you haven’t completed your transaction, is that correct?” “Hell no, it’s feces uninterruptus all the way. It’s... it’s creepin’ me out, man. And I got... deliveries.” “Easy man, easy; what did you say your name was?” “Uh... Nick, uh, Klausewitz.” “Sure, ‘Nick,’ no problemo. Scale of one to five, what kind of texture? one for diarrhea, five for granite.” “Three, mostly, but the last third or so is pretty damn solid.” “Uh-oh. Sounds like somebody’s been slacking off on the fruits and vegetables.” “It came out pretty smooth, but it kinda ran out of steam, feels like there’s gotta be another three-four inches up in there. I think it’s... well… the truth is, there was this fruitcake.” Chad gasped. It took him several seconds to come to terms with my little bombshell. I’d been stupid, stupid and irresponsible, and this was my payback. “Okay man, take it easy, take it easy, let’s just try to stay focused and we’ll get you out of this. You’re with me?” Chad’s voice was calm and assured, and I felt encouraged. I heard pages being turned; he must be consulting a manual. “Okay, Nick. Here’s what we’re gonna do: we’re gonna perform a manual disconnect.” “’No, not that! Please, man, not the hands, I’ve got toys...” “Hold yourself together, man! Listen up, you can do this, pay attention and we’ll get you out of there. Now then, what you need is a credit card.” “What? I thought this is a free service?” “It is, it is. We’re a non-profit outfit. The card’s a tool of sorts.” “Does it have to be credit card? Can I use something else?” “Sure, chief. Any plastic card’ll do – insurance card, driver license, video club card, anything.” I searched my pockets. I pulled out a $10 Wal-Mart gift card. Little Jimmy Thompson hadn’t been all that damned good this year, anyway. “Ok, got it. Now what?” “Now. Here’s what we’re gonna do...” I could tell from the change in his tone that Chad was reading from the manual. He was a rookie, still learning his craft, but somehow, I trusted him. I had to. “Take the card between thumb and index finger, and with a gentle but firm sawing motion, cut the trailing excretion at a perpendicular angle, eye-dot-ee, straight across, as close to the call... to your rectum as possible.” “Then what?” “Then what? You’re a free man, dude! Just wipe and go. Oh, yeah, two more things: notify local maintenance personnel, increase roughage in diet. That’s it! And lay off that fruitcake, it’ll eat your ass up.” “Ok... But stay with me, ok Chad?” “Sure thing, Nicky, I’m here for ya.” I took off my coat and bent forward. I decided it was best not to look at that horrible reflection again. Didn’t want to get spooked. Better to go with my gut. After all, it’s what got me into this predicament. “Ok... I’m going in.” Slowly, I moved the card parallel with my ass. Then... contact! The edge of the card touched the enemy’s skin. Now for the cut, I applied a little more pressure, but the turd seemed to push back. This was truly a force to be reckoned with. I began to saw, slowly at first, faster as it became clear that a hacksaw wouldn’t be overkill for this application. It was slow going, and I almost lost the card twice, but finally, I was a free man. “Chad? I did it! It’s done!” “Sweet! Way to go man.” “I Couldn’t have done it without you. You’re the best!” We said our goodbyes, and I made a mental note to call his supervisor. With his instincts, Chad would go far in the fast-paced world of elimination consultancy. I wiped and washed quickly, and hid the Wal-Mart card down in the garbage. Fastening my pants, I looked down at the hideous deposit of doody that I had unloaded in this unfortunate family’s commode. Flushing would be futile; I hoped they had a good shovel and an empty five-gallon bucket. Sure, I felt bad for leaving such a mess, but then... I laughed. I realized that I had created a family legend, a bona fide Christmas mystery that would live on for generations, and a crime that would be pinned on each family member in turn and laughed at for years to come. No one would remember the presents they received this day, but you can bet your sweet ass they’d never forget Santa’s Special Gift. December 2007 |
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