Call of the Fries

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Call of the Fries is a collection of true stories of adulting gone horribly wrong. Please enjoy responsibly. I wrote this book as a means to further explore the hidden inner layers of my soul through writing. HA! Who am I kidding? Hidden layers? What am I, a Taco Bell burrito? I don’t have any ‘hidden layers’ – at best I have two layers, “presentable layer” and “not so presentable layer,” and nine times out of ten, “not so presentable layer” is always showing her junk to everyone. This is an autobiography slash confessional booth, an outlet to write about the random thoughts I have and ridiculous things I have been through, completely uncensored and without my husband giving me strange looks and secretly dialing the psych ward to come get his wife.

Humor / Other
Elaine Chaney
5.0 3 reviews
Age Rating:

Something Smells

On a beautiful but horribly hot day, my daughter and I decided to go to the beach. Okay, so maybe I was the one that made this decision since my daughter was 2 years old, and really had no choice in the matter. It didn't take much for me to decide that it’s beach time since it was only three miles away from the house. I knew all the secret spots with hardly any foot traffic so I could pretend that one of the huge houses that lined the coast was ours. And on this day, we did exactly that.

We packed up and went to one of our secret spots, ready for a day of sandcastles and catching sand crabs. But shortly after arriving and finishing tower one of our sandcastle, I felt it. A queer rumble and a tumble in my tummy.

It was only slightly uncomfortable, so I ignored it and continued to work diligently with the little one on our sandcastle. We (as in ME) were aiming for five towers, a moat, and a drawbridge. It was truly a mother-daughter moment that could have been a misty water-colored memory that I would cherish for the rest of my life UNTIL it was rudely interrupted by a stomach rumble. It eased up for a few minutes before it hit me again.

It was a rumble, a tumble that was now mixed in with a cramp that made me break out into a cold sweat because I knew this familiar feeling. It was a warning that diarrhea of the explosive kind was about to pay me a visit. This usually wouldn't have been a big deal in ANY other part of the beach, where there were a plethora of restrooms; however, on this day, we were in our "secret spot." A secluded part of the beach with only beach houses as far as the eye could see. I had to hike down a significant hill while carrying my daughter to even get there. As you might have guessed, there were no public restrooms n sight, not even a McDonald's where I could drop off my brown bag lunch. NOTHING.

I panicked for a bit, but then the cramps would momentarily go away and I would be temporarily relieved. Foolishly I thought, “Okay that wasn’t really a big deal, it'll probably just pass.”


“Who’s that?!”

“Explosive diarrhea. Nice to meet you.”

How cordial of my diarrhea to introduce itself, I thought. It sounded reasonable enough so I tried to bargain with it.

“Look, WE JUST GOT HERE. I can’t pack up everything, walk back up that hill, and go look for a bathroom.”

"Well even if you tried to leave, you'd never make it."

A few minutes later, I was hit with another wave of debilitating cramps. This time, it was twice as bad as the first one. I breathed through two more cramps like a woman giving childbirth only I had a feeling this baby wasn't going to be too cute. I started to panic because I could feel my brown baby disaster 'crowning.' If I didn't find some kind of delivery room, it would show up all over the back of my jean shorts. I frantically started to pack up our stuff.

I'm not religious and I don't go to church but I suddenly became real fucking holy as I prayed for my ass cheeks to clamp tight and just hold on.

"Dear God please, for the love of your baby Jesus, give me enough time to get back to the car!"

Midway through packing, another cramp hit me and I realized that even if we walked back up the hill, there was no way I would make it to the car. I frantically looked at the beach houses nearby for any sign of life inside. Maybe I’ll knock on the door and politely ask if I could defile their gold bathrooms. But alas, they were all summer rentals and as inspected, they were all vacant.

I grimaced as another stomach cramp crept up. They were coming at me non-stop now, one on top of the other. If I didn’t find someplace soon I was going to soil myself right then and there. There weren't a lot of people on the beach but there was just enough who would notice a brown dookie smudge on my bottoms.

Frantic, I looked around and then ... I SAW IT. A gift from the beach gods. Someone had dug a deep man-sized hole in the sand, near some rocks!! PERFECT! I thought. I grabbed our sandcastle tools, got my daughter busy building another sandcastle in front of me before I laid down into the hole like it was a beach chair. Carefully, I laid a towel across me, dug ANOTHER hole under my ass, and pulled my shorts down. What came out of me was so violent, it bordered on demonic and nearly shot me up in the air.

One package of baby wipes later, I buried my unexpected surprise (along with my dignity) and began the process of coping with what I just did. I felt slightly guilty that I had polluted our beautiful beach like that but I kept trying to convince myself that poop is biodegradable and would feed a lot of ocean plant life (???) Whatever. I had to go! It couldn’t be helped! I simply had NO CHOICE! It was go in my shorts or in the sand and I really liked my shorts. Not to mention the fact that I had gone through most of my adult life without crapping on myself in public.

This SHOULD be the end of the story. A nice happily ever after ending for my butt (not so much for the beach) but no, the story doesn't end here.

An hour had passed since “THE SHAMEFUL INCIDENT” and I had almost forgotten about the whole thing. The beach was getting a teensy bit crowded so I started to pack our things up. Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I saw a teenage boy milling around by THE hole. MY HOLE.

The same hole where I buried my stank stew.

The closer I looked, I soon realized that he wasn't just milling around the hole. He was DIGGING into the hole.


Please let me emphasize to you that it was a REAL, GROWN FOLKS, SHOVEL, and NOT some plastic shovel that comes with a SpongeBob bucket. A shovel that looked as if it had done its fair share of grave digging. Who the hell brings that kind of shovel to a beach and gives it to their child!? More importantly, why was he digging into my hole!? My newly buried treasure was about to be prematurely unearthed!

I closed my eyes and tried to calm myself down telling myself, “It’s okay, it’s okay, you dug it down pretty deep there’s NO WAY he is going to dig….” But my attempts at being zen in this incident were rudely interrupted by the more realistic side of my brain who screamed; “Are you kidding me! That kid’s digging a fucking hole to China! Of course, he’s going to reach your brownie pie!”

Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod. What the hell is that kid digging for? Why can’t he just build a sandcastle like every other kid for chrissakes?! Then I saw exactly WHY he was digging that hole when I saw his friend standing next to him, preparing TO GO INTO the HOLE so he could be BURIED.


So not only was this child going to dig out the poo, but he was going to unknowingly put the poo BACK ON TO HIS FRIEND.

To cut a horrifying story short, he must have dug past my pile or shoveled it up with a bunch of other sand because it didn’t seem like he saw anything. I high tailed it out of there with my daughter after his friend got into the hole. The sick, morbid part of me kind of wanted to see him be buried, but I didn’t want to push my luck. I had already avoided soiling myself and had pooed in public without anyone noticing just to have it dug back up an hour later, without anyone noticing that either. I decided to cash my brown chips and call the a victory.

So there it is. That’s my story. I’m disgusting and I can’t hold my bowels.

I’m sorry.

Don’t leave me.

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