My youngest daughter has what they call "writing prompts" in her 3rd grade English class. The teacher basically says, "Tell me about a time _____________" and the kids have 7 minutes to write a creative story. Sometimes it can be fiction, sometimes it can be non-fiction. Well, my daughter hates it. hahaha! I told her that sounds fun and asked her what today's writing prompt was and she said it was "Tell me about 'The Worst Moment of Your Life'". Again, "that sounds fun!" I said. To prove a point, I told her to time me the 7 minutes as I bust out a story.
As I continued to write, I knew the only right thing to do would be to share this disaster with you douche mongers.
Without further ado...
The Worst Moment of My Life
by Brandon White
I can always remember the time I was the maddest I have ever been. In fact, there are keywords that people can say, or I see them on a billboard, hear them on TV, or read them in a book and it sets me off again. I’m not going to list out those keywords because I don’t want to be pushed down the slope of rage and punch holes in my computer (again).
...I should probably see an anger counselor for my inability to control my fits of rage.
For the sake of this homework assignment, I’ll set the scene for what happened but, again, for the sake of everything around me, I can’t finish this story. For that, I am sorry.
On the other hand, if I accidentally slip and mention a keyword or detail and it sets me into a fiery hot mess of uncontrollable destruction… then I am sorry for that, too.
Here we go.
When I was 22 years old, I had what could have been - should have been - the greatest night of my life. None of us knew what kind of disaster we were in for - we couldn’t have known because it never went down like this before. It was January 6th of the year 2005 and my wife and friends were throwing me a surprise 23rd birthday. Obviously, I had no idea the party was in the works or I would have prepared differently. Much differently.
My 3 closest friends were in charge of keeping me distracted while my hot wife and the rest of the party arrived at the location of the would-be party. These guys knew me better than anyone as we’d been best friends since the 1st grade. They knew nothing would keep me more content than a few hours at my favorite location - Taco Bell.
We loaded up in Mickey's SUV. We described his SUV as many things but the most accurate has to be when Doug referred to it as a “rusted out pasta strainer”. This thing was an old 1978 Chevy Suburban and it literally had holes in the floor and the sides from all the rusted out panels. It would get you from point A to point B but it did not do it in a way that was safe. In fact, it didn’t even have seatbelts. ...things might have ended up differently if we took Jeremy's or Doug's vehicle.
We made it to Taco Bell and piled out of the Suburban as quickly as possible due to the disgusting gas emitting from Jeremy's poop-shoot. His farts were the worst and there were not enough rusted out holes in Mickey's Suburban to clear the air quick enough. His farts and Mickey's vehicle should have been a sign of what was to come. ...if only we paid attention.
One by one each of us ordered our meal. My go-to meal at Taco Bell has always been a number 4 with a large root beer, 3 chili cheese burritos, and a side of nachos. To the average human, I know that sounds like an enormous amount of food but I am a Professional at devouring the tasty-goodness of Taco Bell. ...or, I should say that I was.
I ate the entire meal - fire sauce and all. It was fantastic! Let’s be honest, it’s always fantastic at Taco Bell. Unbeknownst to me, that meal would take a different turn in my guts because it set forth a chain of events that would wreak havoc and mayhem all over the Eastern seaboard.
As the Taco Bell made its way through my digestive tract, it started to grow into something fierce in my belly. I knew something was going to immediately go wrong when my farts started to smell like the breath of a vulture after eating a decayed skunk that cooked on the top of the road in August. I began to get the sweats. You know the sweats I’m talking about - the kind that comes from somewhere within your body to let you know that it’s going to be go-time in less than 35 seconds.
34…
33…
32…
I get up and start running for the bathroom…
28…
27…
“Who moved the bathroom so far away from the dining area!” I screamed.
24…
23…
22…
21…
20…
Farts are starting to come out of my body so fast that it sounded like a machine gun firing off!
15…
I get to the bathroom door.
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I pull the handle. Nothing.
13…
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I pull the handle again.
11…
10…
I’m starting to panic like a gazelle that knows the pack of lions is about to overtake him.
9…
“Just a minute!” someone yells from inside the bathroom.
7…
6…
I’ve completely soaked through my clothes with sweat. Not a single dry area could be found.
5…
My friends are looking at me.
4…
I begin wondering if I could kick this door down.
3…
I decide to kick the door in.
2…
I lift my leg to exert energy through the door
1…
