Some Of My Favorite Restaurants Make Me Poop

Some Of My Favorite Restaurants Are Literal Sh*tstorms — But I Can’t Help Myself

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I have a few favorite restaurants that call to me from far away lands.

Take, for instance, my favorite burger joint. Their burgers are always done just right, and their hand-cut fries are perfection.

There’s just one problem: Before I even make it out the door after enjoying my meal, I have to shit like I’ve never shat before. It’s as if this glorious food has special powers and can move my bowels like they’ve never been moved before.

It falls right out of me, making me feel like I might die for a moment or two, and every time my bunghole train leaves the station I pray to the Gods above to show my some mercy and swear I will never put myself (and my asshole) through this torture again.

But I know deep down I’ll be back for more. It doesn’t matter if I barely make it to the loo to let go, and my kids say, “Mom, that place makes you crap, do we really have to go?” My cravings are stronger than my ass serpents and they win every damn time.

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Why just the other day I chased a large fry with a bacon cheeseburger (all the way), and was feeling fine.

Until 5 minutes later when I was in a panic because I knew my butt dumplings were steaming in my back door and there was no stopping them.

Denial didn’t help as I told myself perhaps my sudden need to poop was because I was feeling extra relaxed in the warm sun.

Standing cross-legged pretending I was engrossed in my phone didn’t stop them. The dumplings were done, there was smoke, and all alarms were going off.

“Accidentally” dropping my napkin so I could bend down to pick it up and lean into the cramps that were trying to clean out my stomach, colon, intestines, and apparently, all my other insides only made my inner slide more slippery.

I got no sympathy from my kids who knew what was about to happen by the look in my eyes. They grabbed my keys and headed for the car as my youngest said, “Mom, go get that outta your butt. I’ll fill up your soda for you. Can we still get ice cream?”

As I was in the restroom bottoming out, praying no one knocked on the door, and vowing to never eat there again, I remembered all the times I’ve done this to myself and I wonder if this power poop will be The End All and force me to just eat at home where my chocolate cheerio is happy.

Probably not.

My favorite bagel place does it to me, too. The first time it happened was after I’d birthed my three kids and they were so young I had to take them in the restroom with me. Also, I was wearing a jumpsuit, which was very unfortunate.

Have you ever been shitting your brains out with three little bodies around you asking why you’re boobies are hanging out as they touch everything, then announce to the rest of the place they just saw their mom poop naked?

My beloved sub place does it to me every once in a while. How on earth a veggie sub can make me produce that many fudge babies, I’ll never know. One minute I’m ordering a foot long, and the next there’s a foot of long butt truffle coming out of my hindquarters and I can barely hold myself up.

I mean, maybe it’s the extra guacamole? Could it be the extra guacamole? I bet it’s the guacamole. I’m not giving up having guacamole spread all over my sandwich though, that’s ridiculous.

I can’t even begin to describe how my favorite sesame chicken at the buffet rips through my insides and only stays with me for a few moments leaving me with a big bill and a longing for more.

And tacos from the place around the corner? I’m usually left feeling like someone took a match to my keister cakes before they make their exit.

But the few moments of discomfort aren’t enough to keep me from filling my face hole with the deliciousness.

Like right now, I could crush a burrito, then a taco, and wash it down with a few egg rolls. Maybe some fried rice.

Because after a trip to the bathroom I’d feel shiny and new and ready to have some soft serve ice cream which is the worst offender of all. I love nothing more than a good blizzard and I scrape the cup clean even though I know in a few moments it will legit feel like a Nor’easter has taken over my digestive track. I swear, sometimes it comes out cold.

Needless to say, I’ll just keep on eating what I want, then continue laying body boulders — it’s becoming my trademark.

It’s going to take a lot more than blowing a little mud to keep me away from my bacon cheeseburgers, fake ice cream, and greasy food, that’s for damn sure.

Anyone else hungry?