Breakin Da Rim

by Scottie

As I gets toward middle age, I accepts certain realities: I be lucky enough to never play for the Knicks (and I be especially lucky to never plays for the Clippers). I gots no plans to be a United States Senator and eats "yankee pot roast" in the Senate Cafeteria with some half-assed hoopster like that former senator from the smelly state of New Jersey, Bill Bradley. I will never goes to Mars cuz the homegirls there all gots four hooters and that freak me out.

I probably won't even haves a VD clinic named after me in spite of all my visits. I'll never have a date with Michelle Pfeiffer, Ashley Judd, or Isabelle Adjani, but once you done all three at once in the back of a limo why the hell would you want to wastes money buying them dinner--I already feeds them, courtesy of Little Scottie.

I have missed out on some hos--I have never piledrived that alien chick in the Species movies (though I be waiting for you if you want to meet the Pipster, hon). Or either Wilson sister from Heart (cuz I ain't into chicks that weigh more than Krause). And I have never partied with a Kennedy because even guys from Arkansas gots taste. In spite of that, I take solace in the truth that many, if not most, of life's most profound pleasures still be easily within my reach.

I like to floats carelessly in a placid mountain lake, on my 400-foot yacht, and then I naps on a warm, sun-drenched hillside in Watts with my five bodyguards watching over me. I likes to eat funky French food like ficelle and I loves to hang out on a patio brimming with flowers planted by my own butler's hands and drinks coffee.

I've driven a convertible through Cabrini Green with white-boy music like the Captain and Tenille cranked on all eight speakers. I've done a bee-atch in a dressing room of the lingerie department at Nordstrom's even though she spoke very little English (her mouth be too full to speaks any language). I've sipped Kournikova (sorry Fedorov, Anna say that all that money don't make up for your itty-bitty crank) and smoked a Cuban Cohiba in a hospital intensive care unit. I likes to watch all 8 of my sons breathlessly round third and score during a Pee Wee baseball game--as long as I don't haves to talk to them.

But of all life's amusements, can anything touch the pure, natural, singularly cleansing felicity of squatting atop a gleaming white porcelain bowl, and giving a day's worth of waste and toxins their unconditional discharge? I thinks not. Yes, friends, the best things in life are free ... not counting the department of water & power bill for all the flushin' I be doin'.

I be proud to say I address the bowl a good 55 to 60 times per week. Pardon my bravado, but that be a clogging percentage of 7.9+ per day, roughly every three hours. If you spends as much time gazing at Mexican tiles as I do, you'd be doin' these calculations, too. And I be talking natural - no laxatives, no added roughage or fiber, no dried fruits. just me "doin'," in the words of that other great American crackshot, Annie Oakley, 'what be comin' natur'ly" (she must be good at filling toilets too).

I have a friend, we'll call him Michael, even though most of you know him as MJ. He be a business associate, although, in point of fact, he be working for me ever since I won his house, his stank wife Wonita, and two of his kids in a poker game (Michael could only "poker" twice even though he be using Viagra, I poke her seven times in one night).

Despite his supercilious bearing (likes that? I gots a theasaurus now and it be such a big saurus it could kick Barney's butt) and endless lugubrity (there be another big word) regarding my career, we've become quite close (but not in the way that Rodman think), primarily because - among other share interests - we be active eliminators. Early on in our relationship, I tells Michael of my 7.9 daily acumen. When he replied that he do that by noon, I knew I has to see this in action. So we now hangs around each others house and watch each other take dumps. We be friends for life. After all what define a friendship other than smelly habits?

What did Damon and Pythias have in common other than funky names that no self-respecting city kid would have? The shared whores of war? A passion for sculpture and spanikopitas and fellatio? A evening with Dionysius' daughter? Believe me, that ain't all it cracked up to be--Dionysius put a chastity belt on her muff.

Michael and I 'eliminate' lot. That be, excuse the expression, what bind us, especially when we start doing our baboon imitation and do it in our hands and throw it at each other then wrestle--we end up sticking together in our dried doo-doo, but it make us closer as players and keep opposing players at a safe distance due to the rank smell.

Not long ago, following the break-up of a relationship with a woman who didn't haves the decency to let him know she was insane until after he had moved her into the spare bedroom, right next to Wonita's room, Michael threw himself in remodeling his home with the zeal of a guy whose CD rack includes Barbra Streisand, Peter Allen, and every origin Broadway cast recording since The Fantasticks. Of course Barbra and Peter and friends gets really tired being strung up on the rack like that, so MJ lets them down every so often so they can haves a drink of water and some stale bread. When it came time to re-do the john, naturally, Michael asked for my help.

As you can imagine, the porcelain buses in my house be getting quite a vigorous workout, and having gone through my own toilet installation some time back, I be the ideal man for the job.

For Michael, we decided to goes with the Kohler Low-Boy Pow Light Turboflush Tracadero model 3437: quite simply, in my opinion, the Cadillac of toilets. Stylishly designed, scientifically constructed for superior performance and stability, the Turboflush Tracadero model 3437 is truly the next generation in the evolution of indoor plumbing technology. Standard equipment (I be reading from the pamphlet here, pardon the big words) be including a butt-hugging ergonomic polyurethane seat, an environmentally considerate 1.5 cubic gallon-capacity tank (hell, I can dump 1.5 gallons each time I goes to the john with diarrhea), and the patented 1.1 Light-Pressure Turbo, which displaces an amazing 66.2 cubic inches of waste-pumping action. With a peak torque of almost 92 lb./ft. at 200 rpm, a staggeringly low wind-drag coefficient of less than .0126, and a compression ratio of 9.25:1, it be a marvel of information-age form and function.

Sit down, and you drops a double lutz or even a triple salchow, and KA-BLAM! Your business is blown clear into the neighbor's sump pump. I likes doing that. Flushing almost more fun than dumping, especially if Rodman be in the hotel room next door and be surprised to see my stuff flying out of his toilet.

Following the installation, Michael asked if I would be so kind as to deflower his virgin throne (after all, I had gotten the awful job of deflowering Wonita, so this be my reward for suffering through that). 'Me?' I asked, stupefied. 'Lay the first deuce? Drop the first load?' I eagerly accepts this high honor with respect and humility. Then I dances a jig and says "hey, Mike, I not using the john for two days before christening it so I can plugs it up!"

We dug out 10 40-ounce bottles of Mickey's for the christening of this Titanic. To ensure success, Michael whipped together a light gassy brunch - bagels, eggs, fruit, nothing too binding. Of course, I drinks my training table coffee: strong, full-bodied, and bowel-breaking good. One steaming cup in the morning, and you can practically hear the 7.9+ dumps knocking at the back door. We languished over topics such as current events, straight-guy decorating (I likes to decorate Phil with ribbons in his beard), business strategies, and women, until I felt the baby drop. Actually the whole process kind of remind me of childbirth. Then I let Michael know it was time to move 'em out.

He jumped with the excitement of a kid going to the circus. Since I be hung like a horse and be ready to drop loads like an elephant, I can understands MJ's excitement.

While I paces and starts an inner dialogue with my colon, Michael prepared the room. Soon, the pungent aroma of Tilex be beckoning. A freshly-plucked sprig of Wisteria bowed in a brushed-steel bud vase. An aromatherapy candle of lavender and tallow and paraffin, to aid relaxation and a general sense of well-being, flickered gently. I takes all this in, then smile cuz I know I gonna drop a load that will send up a stink so bad that it be outdoing even two gallons of Tilex.

I sit there and thinks about the line I gonna be making on MJ's bathtub once I start spurtin' away. I haves to give the man credit though, with an eye for detail DaVinci would envy, Michael even put a "Sanitized For Your Protection" ribbon across the seat. I likes to stand up, drop my drawers, and expel the first piece of poo like a Roman candle so that it break the ribbon from a distance of several feet. It be time to shit or get off the pot.

Momentarily, we stands silently in the bathroom, humbled by the task ahead, until my anus starts squealing like that Ned Beatty fellow. That be when MJ starts getting scared and know it be time to gets a move on. Neil Armstrong had no greater duty for God or man on Tranquility Base than I at that moment, except I knows that if I been on the moon right then I coulda filled that entire crater.

Michael takes my hands and shooks them vigorously. He mumbled something about tradition and honor and valor and "please don't makes this a total mess, Scottie", and turns to leave. At the door, he looked back, the faintest glistening in his eyes cuz the first smell be starting to reach him and a quizzical mix of emotions on his face as he realize that his john be about to gets blasted to kingdom come.

I senses a measure of pride that such a propitious (sees, I still gots that theasaurus) event be taking place in his bathroom and that I, his friend and teammate, be embarking on it with his blessing. There also be a hint of melancholy that he somehow didn't do more to recognize the grandeur of this auspicious occasion, but one fart from me and he be about ready to scurry for cover. I knows there be a twinge of jealousy that, perhaps, he should have been the one to shoulder this heady sojourn, but then again MJ can never crap in the clutch, I still remembers that dump contest we gots with the Celtics when he gots nervous couldn't even outpoop that little tightass Danny Ainge. MJ shouldn't feels too bad, after all, makes even more than me, but once I does Wonita 8-10 more times and gets the deed to everything in his possession I gonna start attaching some of that salary.

In a final gesture of camaraderie, we crossed shpritzes of our whiz (I still loves sword fights, but MJ gots an advantage as smaller swords be easier to maneuver). We then watches the aromatic mists get sucked into the gentle whirring on his fully integrated, state-of-the-art exhaust system. I thinks just how hard that exhaust system be working in a couple minutes. Then Michael takes his last Mickey's and break it across my stem and left me alone.

I looks upon the terrain with a feeling of destiny. His high-tech, faux-restored fixtures gleamed thanks to all the hard work that his illegal space alien maid from Zeta Reticuli do with her six arms, his tissue dispenser that be shaped like Janet Jackson's head, so you pull TP out of Janet's mouth (or you can puts something else in her mouth), the opal-inlayed incense tray I gots him, which usually be enough to cover up his smell, but not Wonita's smell at "that time of the month", and his prized, free-standing, custom-fit, hand re-porcelained 80-year-old, cast iron bathtub. Maybe if I fills the toilet I'll leaves a great big surprise in that tub. And, of course, the Kohler Low-Boy Power Light Turboflush Tracadero model 3437.

I paces a bit, shaking out the nerves, chanting my mantra: "Poooo, Poooo, Poooo." I dared Mr. Hankey to show his ugly face, because I gots my Mr. Potatohead set all ready so I can puts a prettier face on him. Finally, I was locked and loaded, ready to rock and roll, with a slow gas leak.

I sits down, and a deep feeling of peace and tranquility commandeered my body and soul. I was at one with the bowl, harmonically converged with time, space, the vibrations of the Earth, and the Greater Chicago Solid Waste Disposal Authority (also known as "the Chicago River"). I hears Michael pacing anxiously, like a father outside the delivery room, fearful that my load be too big for this little bitty 1.5 gallon toilet. I drifts off into a wonderfully soothing, semi-conscious dream state, and then ... I lets loose my bowels.

The next thing I recalls, the floor began to rumble and the walls shook, clattering Michael's toiletries with a power that could only be geologic. This rumbling be worse than any fart I ever lets loose before, this be worse than even Luc's farts.

The quaking rattles the new toilet clear off its wax ring, and then I hears a distinct crack. Wow, I shoots my poo out so fast that it knock the toilet loose. This be cool. Water splash everywhere and escaped from a widening fissure in the fuselage of the fixture.

As if possessed, I stays put and keeps on pumping out that first log, which by now be 30 inches or so long and 10 inches around--and solid likes a brick thank to all the Kaopectate I takes the last week in preparation so I could loads up for this moment. No act of God or nature, cataclysm, nor force majeur was going to stop me from delivering the goods that day. I sits firm, cheeks to the seat. Still in my quasi-epiphanous ecsta-state (wow, don't I sounds smart with this theasaurus), I heard myself cry out, "I'm King of the World! Wooooo!"

The rumbling did not stop as my rectum push out more and more. I senses panic, chaos, and, best of all, the total stench of epic tragedy. Michael rush in and we tries to rescue as many toiletries as possible, but there were far too many. Far too many.

My log break off and I starts shooting diarrhea all over the place, spraying the entire room with an epic drench of brown and green liquid. MJ be getting covered with it, while I only takes a little bit on the back of my leg. The vessel be taking on too much water, and soon the unimaginable crystallized. The Power Light Turboflush Tracadero model 3437 be going down! Then, the tank be lifting high into the air and the Great Bowl broke apart and sank. On its maiden voyage. Oh, the humanity.

The entire bathroom be covered in poo water and green spray and MJ look like he be back working in his granddaddy's North Carolina manure pits, he be covered with the stuff. And everything smelled like a pig sty. This be the dump of a lifetime--I comes through in the clutch once again and MJ's bathroom never gonna be the same. I can't waits for Wonita to come home and sees this mess.

I be a survivor of this tale. I testify to its profound truth. Live for today. Celebrate what's in your hand (yuck) and in your bowels, not what be beyond your grasp. Nothing keeps forever, not even the smell I leaves at MJ's that day. No dream survives unchanged. All great journeys begin with small footsteps or great big 30-inch logs.

The next time you rests your weary bones on that odd chair in your bathroom, remember this: It be the simple joys that lasts a lifetime. Loads up and let loose, especially at your friends' houses, cuz you may be making a memorable mess that causes a superstar's wife (we just call her Wonita) to divorces him, so he now be free of that ho. MJ say he owe me bigtime for finally doing something so disgusting that she be willing to takes a $1,000 a month divorce settlement, she be so grossed out. "I should have gotten you to come over and christen my bathroom a lot sooner, then I could been getting a lot more from the homegirls instead of hanging around this Wonita bitch." So all be well that be ending well, especially when it be the stuff from your end that bring such happiness to a fellow superstar's life.

Colonic, anyone?