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Hell. I was stuffed. Impossibly stuffed. Stuffed to overflowing. I pushed the table away from me. I ripped open my shirt. My head fell back like a bowling ball on an orchid stem. My mouth fell open. The masticated food at the top of my esophagus pooled with the saliva at the back of my mouth then dribbled out over my lips. I shrieked. I stretched. I pounded the table with my fists. I rubbed my belly. Yawned. I farted. I didn’t give a fat fuck what any of these monkeys thought. I was sated.
If given all the time in the world, I could never describe to you the fervor and urgency—the raw animal need for sustenance—with which I fed myself at the Scranton Ponderosa! I ate a turkey. Broccoli. Turnips. A giant salad. A Mexican salad. Taco after taco. Mashed potatoes. Baked potatoes. Yams. Cups of salsa. Sour cream and guacamole. Meatloaf. Collard greens. Apples. Yogurt. Pizza. Burgers. Pizza burgers. Lasagna. Penne pasta with red sauce. Clams. Buffalo wings. Hot dogs. Chili dogs. A brickette of Velveeta. A bottle of Tobasco. I drank three cups of coffee, six beers and 2 espressos. I ate a sundae with caramel and bananas and chocolate sauce while smoking a pack of cigarettes. I ate Ex-Lax squares and drank laxative tea. I ate 4 bowls of rice then. And Noodles. And mu shu pork. And Thai Massaman curry with pork. I ate spare ribs and top round and rib eye and Swedish meatballs. Rigatoni. More coffee. More cigarettes. A cigar. Another cigar. Beef stew. Oatmeal. Porridge. Fine cheeses. A bagel with lox and a schmear. A falafel. A gyro. Oh, and corn. You couldn’t believe the variety in this dump. “More fucking coffee, you backwards sons of bitches!”
I punched a girlscout in the face with the napkin dispenser when she asked me if I was going to finish my fries. A child. Jesus. No! What in the fuck did she think I was going to do with them? Grab some toothpicks and olives and make little french fry people? Imbecile. I washed down my meal with a bottle of tepid, unfiltered river water fom the Ganges and glowered at the idiots in line for the shitter.
“What are you looking at?!”
Bellowing, I returned my attention to the table. I tore a turkey leg off the dessimated carcass, smeared it in mashed potato and ketchup, swirled it in mayonnaise and salad dressing, dragged it along the tablecloth for texture and started fellating it.
"Ooh-BOCK, ooh-BOCK, ooh-BOCK, ooh-BOCK, ooh-BOCK!!!”
I ripped it apart with greasy fingers. I smeared its juices on my face. I painted myself in meat and condiments.
“I have to shit!”
I tore off my suit jacket and stumbled back into the field then, braying like a retarded asshole swatting at invisible wasps.
POOP PART 1
POOP PART 3
Date Written: January 12, 2005
Author: Dick Vomit
Average Vote: 4
Comments:
01/26/2005 TheBuyer (5): 20 stars. Oh, and corn.
01/26/2005 Mr. Pony (5):
01/26/2005 Dick Vomit: POOP PART 1
From,
Author
01/26/2005 Cyrus (5): I still don't think he should have had the BUFFay.
01/26/2005 anonymous: POOP PART 3
Dick
Vomit
01/26/2005 Mr. Pony: Here's a bit of thinking, DV. You could put the links to the previous and next chapters into the shorts themselves, at the ends, and thus keep their locations on the pages constant and consistent.
01/26/2005 qualcomm (3): this one, on the other hand, i found kind of boring.
01/26/2005 anonymous: I will do this.
D,
V
01/26/2005 scoop (2):
01/26/2005 Litcube: Holy shit. This was pretty cool.
01/26/2005 Jawbreaker (4): A solid four. Unlike the crap that is going to come out of this man's ass.
01/26/2005 Ewan Snow (4):
01/26/2005 Jon Matza (3): Re ending: "the field" = the field? Re short: must agree w/your detractors. Vivid gross out scene doesn't live up to vol. I's cubbins shifts in plot & tone (though "Ooh-BOCK" elicited a smile from the za). In any event am holding high hopes for chapters III-MDCLXVII.
01/26/2005 qualcomm: dv, you know i am the biggest fan of your usually spot-on noise descriptions (Lar, Lar, Lar, etc). but ooh-BOCK just mystified me. didn't seem to fit the action of fellating a drumstick.
01/26/2005 Jon Matza: ooh-BOCK = recurring, "POIT"-like, cork-popping noises as the drumstick exited the guy's mouth (as I 'heard' it)
01/26/2005 anonymous: Like...yes, like the porno staple of the dick popping in and out.
From,
Author
01/26/2005 The Rid (3): Okay. We're on Day 2 and I already feel like I know where this is going. It's kind of like that L. Ron Hubbard "Dekalogy." There's one decent story and the other nine are a commercial for Dianetics. And I'm beginning to wonder if this is a short story that you wrote and broke into short-shorts. I mean, can a serial be considered a short? Opine? Are the other seven parts exactly like the first two?
01/26/2005 qualcomm: no, i understood that. but it doesn't sound quite right. something vacuumier would be more appropriate, i'll wager. something like phlum-schlorp, but better.
01/26/2005 anonymous: Rid: All will be revealed.
From,
Ricky
01/26/2005 The Rid: Author, I give you my trust for one reason: I may one day pull a stunt like this myself.
01/26/2005 anonymous: QC: take your standard phlum-schlorp and add to it the fact that the narrator is also probably hollering.
muh
01/28/2005 John Slocum (5): I, Slocum, laughed more at this than at almost any other short I've ever read. Granted I'm a simpleton and don't know what I'm talking about; but how could you not find funny the exagerrated and ever more baroque and impossible list of buffet items protagonist ate? When 'mu shu pork' came along I ripped my gut (laughed explosively). 'I punched a girlscout in the face with the napkin dispenser when she asked me if I was going to finish my fries' comes wildly out of left field with the force of a napkin dispenser in the face (and sent me into hysterics). It loses a spot of energy after that; somehow the guy fellating the chicken leg seemed disjointed, but the author recoups with some funny shit at the end. 'nice work.' I'm only worried you won't be able to maintain for many more episodes.
02/2/2005 port jervis (5): Alliance: OOOH-BOCK!