Andy

When you unleash a bowel movement so vile, so cataclysmically foul, that it feels like your very soul is trying to evacuate your body. This isn’t just a poop—it’s an exorcism. The second it leaves you, the toilet groans in protest. The walls absorb the trauma. The air thickens to the consistency of expired gravy. Birds outside fall silent. Somewhere, a distant car alarm goes off. The consistency? Indescribable. It’s like hot magma mixed with expired pudding, with a splash zone so extensive it makes Chernobyl look like a minor incident. You try to wipe, but each pass of the toilet paper only seems to spread the damage. It’s like trying to dry off in a hurricane with a single tissue. Your fingers make accidental contact. The toilet paper roll trembles in fear. Your only option? Full-scale biohazard containment. You strip down to your very essence, stepping into the shower like a war refugee. The water turns brown on impact. You scrub with a level of desperation usually reserved for crime scene cleanups. The drain begins to gurgle—even it wants no part of this. You question your diet, your life choices, and whether you need to alert the CDC. Even after the scalding shower, you don’t feel clean. The ghost of this dump lingers in your soul. Your bathroom will never be the same. Your dignity is lost forever.