This past December I graduated college, and for the first time since 2012, I finally had time to take a vacation with my friends. The previous four years I had dedicated to school, my job, and countless hours of furious masturbation. In other words, I didn’t get out very much. Needless to say, when two of my closest friends asked me what the first thing I wanted to do after graduation was, I quickly suggested a road trip.
Despite several suggestions, our destination wasn’t up for debate for very long. We wanted it to be far enough away that we could enjoy the drive, but not so far that we would murder each other at the halfway point. I love my friends, but more than two days of driving with those psychopaths would be enough for me to seriously consider burying an ice pick in my own temple.
Over the next day or so we compiled a short list of spots we’d like to go. New York was too far, and, as my buddy Dale pointed out, smells like someone had microwaved a giant pile of dirty diapers.
Miami got nixed because I hadn’t seen the sun in years, and I was pretty sure If I took my shirt off on a Miami beach the glare from my pasty gut would bring down an airplane. I didn’t want that kind of blood on my hands.
And L.A. got the boot because I didn’t want to run the risk of seeing a Justin Bieber in person and face the subsequent murder trial that would inevitably follow if that happened.
Ultimately Denver won out because it met our criteria for distance, but more importantly, because of legal marijuana.
A week later, bright eyed and bushy tailed, we set off on our adventure. With the exception of an incident involving a urine filled bottle of Coke on a desolate stretch of road between Amarillo and Colorado Springs, the trip went off without a hitch. We laughed a lot, we learned all the words to NSYNC’S greatest hits, and we found out what happens when you try to empty a bottle of piss out a window while going 85 miles an hour.
Sometimes on hot days the smell comes back.
It was cool and dry when we rolled across Denver’s city limits. The sun was low in the sky and had slowly began to disappear beneath the horizon. Just enough light still peeked out and crowned the mountains in the distance with an ethereal halo. I had never seen anything like it. The scenery was absolutely beautiful, but somehow, still wasn’t enough to distract me or my friends from the three things at the forefront of our minds.
Food, weed and weed.
The first fast food joint we saw was a Taco Bell, and between the three of us we ended up spending sixty seven dollars.
Soft tacos cost .99 cents each…you do the math.
We ate just enough to sate our appetites, and left the rest in the back seat of my car. With food taken care of, there was only one other thing we wanted.
The devils lettuce.
With big, dumb fucking grins spread across our faces, we went to the dispensary and picked out ten different types of weed, but were then promptly informed we could only have 7 grams each since we were out-of-staters. Kind of a bummer, but 7 grams of weed was 7 grams more than we started with.
Our stay in Denver was for three days, and after our trip to the dispensary we quickly realized the only thing we had planned to do was buy weed. Realizing this, we put our baked heads together in a brainstorming session in which Dale suggested we get high on a mountain.
So on day two, we tried…
Despite only making it thirty steps up the mountain, we sat content under the shade of a Ponderosa Pine, smoking our legal weed while gorging ourselves on PB&J’s, Slim Jim’s and Doritos. Looking back, it was best we didn’t make it any further up that mountain. Given our collective lack of athletic prowess we probably would have ended up dead, or at the very least, maimed by a bear.
On day three we went to a Rockie’s game.
In my five or so years of smoking pot, I have found that there’s a bunch of things weed just doesn’t make any better. Family gatherings, big important tests, court appearances…
After that day I could safely add baseball games to the lists. About halfway through the seventh inning, with the three of us falling asleep despite the riveting 0-0 battle being forged on the field, I decided we needed two things: A change of fucking venue, and some food.
As if God had heard my thoughts, an advertisement for an indoor skydiving place flashed across the scoreboard. I elbowed Frank in the ribs.
“This game sucks assholes.” I said. “How about we go there?” Frank followed my finger to the advert on the screen. After a short talk, Frank and Dale agreed that the game did indeed suck an entire silo of assholes, so we booked it. First food, then to Denver’s newest indoor skydiving retreat.
Back in the car, however, the three of us realized how thin our food budget had got. The cash we had earmarked for food had somehow been spent on weed. (Shocking, I know.)
We were faced with a choice.
Either we could skip the indoor skydiving and use that money for one last nice dinner in Denver…or we could eat the remaining seventeen Taco Bell soft tacos that had been stewing in the back seat of my piss smelling car for the past two days.
We ate the tacos.
With our bellies full of stale, cold soft tacos we each took a monster rip off the bong in the car, and walked into the indoor skydiving place.
It was somewhere during the long prepping of our “flights” that my stomach began to feel a little…iffy.
Not wanting to strip out of the jumpsuit they made us put on, I decided I could hold it for the foreseeable future.
I was wrong.
After the tutorial, our turn approached and both Frank and Dale went without incident. I could vaguely hear both of them clamoring on about how awesome the experience was. But, with my mind preoccupied with the hateful storm brewing in my gut, their voices were like echoes at the end of a hallway.
Somewhere I heard another echo.
“What?” I said looking around.
“You’re up.” The instructor said jacking his thumb back to the giant glass chamber where I’d be “flying.”
Tentatively I stood with my hands on my stomach, and ambled over to the entrance. From somewhere in the building the turbines revved, and air began rushing through the chamber. “I can do this.” I thought. “I can do this…”
Into the chamber I went, and before I knew it I was parallel with the netting underneath me while being steadied by the hand of my instructor.
Initially, it was amazing…
Despite the pure evil bubbling away in my stomach, I somehow managed to relax a little and enjoy my flight. I was able to relax so much, in fact, that I felt confident enough to let out a small bit of gas. The pressure was becoming too much, and I was sure that given the wind there’d be no way the instructor would smell it. So I farted.
Only it wasn’t a fart.
It was shit.
A fair amount of shit.
At the time it was happening, I wasn’t even aware that I had shit myself. That mortifying realization came afterwards when I landed back on the platform and felt the hot flow diarrhea creep its way down the back of my thigh.
“It’s okay.” I thought to myself. “I’m in a jumpsuit, I’ll run to the bathroom, and no one will know.” …Only everyone already knew.
As it turns out, while I was doing my spin thing in the wind chamber, small bits of liquid poo flew out of the bottom of my jumpsuit pants, landed on the glass, and were blown upwards leaving dozens of shit rivulets all along the chamber walls.
They had to shut down the entire building for two hours while some poor cleaning lady came in with a special ladder to clean my mess.
Looking back on it now, the worst part wasn’t that I had shit myself. It wasn’t the long, embarrassing, half-bent waddle to the bathroom as I tried to stanch the flow of warm liquid turd. It wasn’t even the incessant laughter from my friends that lasted all the fucking way back home. No, the worst part was the look on the poor janitor’s face that had to scrub my diarrhea off the walls. A small bit of her died that day, and I was to blame…
On the bright side, they let me keep the jumpsuit.
Written by Daniel Oliver.