Poop Sprints with Ole Freckles
I woke up Friday morning and enjoyed a bowl of my wife’s green chili as I browsed through Black Friday fishing deals. I’m not sure what I was looking at when I realized I didn’t currently have a good pairs of waders or wading boots. As you can imagine this is unacceptable for an angler like myself and that madness needed to be rectified as soon as possible.
A good bit later Leslie and I were in our local Cabelas going through all the waders. I hate shopping for anything clothing related. If I was 5 foot 3 and weighed 400lbs there’s options, if I was 6 foot 3 and 150lbs there are options, for some reason being my size (6 something 3 something) finding clothing is a pain. I’m too big for normal shops, not quite big enough for big and tall shops. When we couldn’t immediately find my size I was ready to grab a few jerkbaits and call it a day. Leslie on the other hand is a shopper of the highest caliber. Her and the gentleman helping us had waders that fit me and a pair of size 14 wading boots lickety-split. The only downside was the waders were missing the wading belt, no problem, the dude working there threw one in for free! Now we’re cooking with peanut oil, ole buddy!
Like a little kid that just got a new bike I wouldn’t wait to take my waders for a test drive. I was so excited to have waders that fit me I put them on at the house. Everything fit like it was tailored to fit my Shrekness. The wading belt was a bit of a gut punch. That little thang couldn’t have willed itself around my right butt cheek, but it’s the thought that counts. With a fresh cup of coffee and wearing my new wading duds I was off to the lake!
About a mile down the road I realized I’ve made a huge mistake. Between the green chili and copious amount of coffee I felt a hint of toots building up in my chest. I’m 44 years old so this isn’t my first song and dance farting with waders on, but time has a funny way of muffling pain. As I pondered back and forth between letting a little something something go before my intestines burst I started getting hot. Between wearing waders and the heat blasting in my truck I was now sweating something fierce on top of deciding if it’s worth farting in my face to get a little relief.
Like a total nutjob I roll the windows down and start talking to myself as I’m driving down the street with waders on. To paint a picture imagine a big dude like me sweating like he’s in a sauna, wearing waders, and having an intense conversation with himself at a red light… yea. I finally decide if I don’t relieve some of the pressure I’m not walking in water today. Regretfully I lean to the side and let it go. It was as bad or worse than I remembered it. While the waders do fit, I’ll admit they’re a little snug. It seems as if my body created a little air highway from between my buns directly to my chest, which somehow pushed my own turd air directly into my soul. I’m a man damn it and I’m not about to dry heave on my own cooking, but it was close, damn close!
After the dust had settled I was gas free and walking to one of my spots. The spot is away from the crowds exactly how I like it. I was carrying three rods, a backpack, and a cup of coffee. My mind was going through the game plan of what I’d throw first. The second I settled on starting with a Rising Son line thru swimbait my stomach felt like someone just poured sparkling water in it. Not an alarming feeling but almost like my stomach was just whispering “hey buddy, just letting you know I’m here.” I didn’t think much of it and continued down the path toward the water.
The second I get to my spot and drop all my gear I feel a little drum beat in my stomach. This time a little more alarming with hearing the actual sounds I was feeling. I knew what was brewing but I wasn’t about to turn around right now, at least not before catching a fish. I take one step into the water and immediately have to clinch up something tight to catch my business before I soil these damn waders on my first trip. I take another step and the little stomach “hey buddy I’m here.” Whispers have morphed into “HEY MAN WE GOTTA GO!” At this point I believe that between the power of my turd cutter and sheer strength of my buns I can keep the inevitable at bay to catch at least one fish.
With the determination of a viking I rear back and take my first cast. As I send the Rising Son soaring into the Colorado sky it’s like a fog of must catch a fish lifts and I have a better sense of the severity of the situation. Sweating and funneling all my humanly power into my sphincter I start reeling in as fast as I can. I’m freaking out knowing how one little mistake is going to take my brand new waders and turn them into an Eric soup bowl… I know me, if that happens, I’m throwing these damn things away.
I quickly grab my gear and start walking back to the truck. At this point I’m sweating like a red headed roofer in July and the stomach sounds are getting more aggressive. I realize the situation has elevated to defcon 5, there is going to be a war at this point the focus is to reduce loss of life and collateral damage. My walk now elevates to a run’ish looking penguin looking waddle with pace and intensity. I did everything I could to speed things up while keeping everything down below locked up tight.
I can’t imagine what it looked like with my power penguin walking back to the truck. You’d think someone in a dire situation like this would just throw their gear in the back of their truck and haul ass to a bathroom. Not me. I thought about it, but being so close to Denver there was no way I was going to save my waders to then have my rods and pack stolen. As fast as I could I laid my rods on my passenger seat and threw my pack in the back seat.
Now I’m hauling ass to the bathroom but my sunglasses are completely fogged up as sweat pours down my face. I jump the curb and park basically on the bathroom and run towards the door. If the doors were locked I was gonna have to dookie in the bushes. Thankfully the door wasn’t locked because I was completely out of time. Normally inspect and clean the seat before I sit down, ain’t nobody got time for that now. I simultaneously push my waders down as I lean back falling into the toilet. My combustive green chili/coffee mix starts dropping before my buns hit the seat miraculously making it into the bowl.
Beads of sweat are pouring down my face, I’m still wearing my sunglasses which are now completely fogged to the point I can’t even see, but a sense of calm washes over me. There’s still the sounds of complete and utter disaster going on below me, all I can think about is it could have been so much worse.
As you read this you’re probably thinking the horrific parts of this story are over, I did too. No ole buddy after the colonic takes place and I rid myself of everything inside of my body, it was time to clean myself and get back to fishing. The problem is I’m wearing waders with big boots and I can’t spread my legs far enough apart to wipe myself. I’m in a public bathroom and now everything around my feet is wet which I assume is from the waders, but my what about Bob’ness can’t seem to rationalize that all that wetness around the floor is from me.
This is where is gets so stupid I can’t believe I’m sharing it. I stand up, lean over, and start taking little steps as I’m wiping myself, trying to figure out how I can do this without taking my waders off and stepping into the mystery wetness all over. I’m bent over duck walking wiping my butt all over this damn bathroom, thinking somehow this made sense. After 5 laps around the bathroom, I figured it was as good as it could get, and my work here was done.
After that fiasco normal people go home and learn from it. Not me ole buddy! I’m a gambling man that lives to fish. I drank the rest of the coffee I had in my thermos and got right back out on the water. The only lesson I can take from the events of this day is this: I’ve made a lot of concessions in my life and will never when it comes to fishing, my wife’s green chili, and surely not coffee. Poop in my pants or not, I’m living my life ole buddy, one cast at a time.
