My youngest son recently turned nine.  Nine isn’t a hugely monumental age in terms of being a kid, I certainly don’t remember much about nine.  For my youngest son, Pico-de-nacho, nine for him meant a sleepover.  I remember being at sleepovers as a child, and I remember many of those instances being quite rowdy, and loud.  I know now for certain that every parent HATED having kids over for sleepovers.  They must have. I certainly hate it when my kids have sleepovers, and, somewhere around 2am as I lay awake listening to the sounds of children laughing and carrying on in attempts to ‘stay up ALL night’, I always vow, THIS WILL BE THE LAST YEAR….then I forget about it months later, and get suckered into another one each birthday, as was so early this December.

Pico is the more wild of my two sons.  He has energy to him. He goes hard all day, and crashes hard every night.  Because he is a little harder to handle, he only is allowed three friends at his sleepover, while my older son may have five.  

Party day arrives and the friends arrive.  Two of Pico’s friends I recognize and they have been over more than once, and been on soccer teams with Pico, etc.  I know them.  The 3rd child, we’ll call him, Gaucho, I do not know.  He is the smallest of the four kids, and he is only allowed to come over until 10pm, no sleepover.  This is odd to me, but whatever, fewer kids means less noise. I’m totally on board.

The party starts the kids are crazy, as usual, playing video games, smacking each other with Nerf weaponry, eating copious amounts of sugar, and generally going bat-s**t crazy.  While they play I’m, “on kid duty” my wife goes and hides away in our room.   

During one section of the evening, I’m on the couch, and the boys are playing video games.   Gaucho disappears to use the restroom, which in and of itself is not an odd thing for a child to do.  He is not gone an extraordinary amount of time, and returns to the couch to resume game playing.  I catch something odd whisper from his mouth that causes my ears to perk.

“Whatever you do don’t go in the bathroom.”  He whispers.

Nobody really changes up their behavior, and they almost immediately return to video gaming.   I don’t take immediate action either and continue to play games on my phone.  Then the longer I sit, I keep replaying his words in my head.  Why the HELL would he not want the other kids to go to the restroom? At first I thought maybe he cut a radical fart in there or something, which, I get that, smelly is smelly…no bueno.   Then I couldn’t help but wonder, WHY did he whisper, when the kids were clearly not using their outside voices.

Curiosity got the better of me and I ventured into our bathroom to see if there was anything amiss.

The bathroom was as it should be, no towels or anything amiss anywhere, that meant if there was something wrong it sat under the closed lid of our toilet.  Time to check.


I opened the lid of the toilet, and there, was what can only be classified as Turd-zilla.  I have only seen a turd that size once EVER in my life.   It was at a port-a-potty in Gold Bluff Beach.  It’s the kind of bowel movement you don’t forget.  It scares you.  It seers into your retinas, and buries itself deep into your long term memory.  I recall the one from Gold Bluffs Beach, because I really had to go pee, and when I opened up the port-a-john door and approached the pit, I could see it only a few inches below the crest, sitting dead center on a pile of white toilet paper, like it had been intentionally laid out for viewing.  I was so taken back from the mgea-log that I lost all desire to relieve myself, partially for fear my stream could upset the levia-turd and it might rise up and strike me down. I waited another hour to pee, and  I never forgot it.

When I saw this new beast of brown in my own toilet, I was QUICKLY transported back to that port-a-potty on the beach.  Only now the game had changed, it was in MY home.   I need to tell you the sheer size of this log.  It was EVERY bit the diameter of the hole at the bottom of the bowl, so much so, that it was half-in (or gawd, I hope it was half) and half angled out like a big brown spring board…and it was obviously stuck.  The toilet had been attempted to flush a couple times, but Franken-Turd wasn’t going out of my home without a fight.  Gaucho had apparantly decided NOT to alert me he had clogged my toilet, and just tell his homies not to go in there, and I guess, he hoped it would just go away…NOT THIS LOG.

I fought back the urge to cry, and just leave home forever… and began to try to assess the situation.  As I saw it, I had three options at this point. No option of the three was pleasant.

Option 1- Close the lid, and pretend it never happened. You can’t UNSEE that. Not happening.

Option 2- Find something to cover my hand physically remove the offending log.  There was NO FAWKING WAY I was touching that BIG A*S turd with my hands and have to actually feel it’s girth and weight in my hand. NO FAWKING WAY.  Option 2 is a no go.

Option 3- Grab something metal and hack at it like Jason Voorhees until it died and could be safely flushed away.  I couldn’t get my head to accept the chore of actually cutting up and aborting the turd.  What if it was REALLY solid and required substantial effort to slice?  What if there was well more than half down the rabbit hole already so to speak.  It made me gag thinking of hacking up some child’s turd log with a coat hanger, so I just sat there and stared at the big brown chuckwalla chaped poop lurking in the bottom of my toilet.

While I ogled this behemoth of a turd, I began to take some thought about the sheer physics of passing this thing out of a human body.  If you had shown me a photo of the log, after I socked you in the throat, If you told me a 500 pound man had made this, I would be REALLY amazed, and still shocked.  This log was made by a small boy.  It was as big around as a standard coffee mug.  NO KIDDING.  This tiny human being gave birth to something horrible in my toilet, and was now, by all accounts, still smiling and happy and walking upright in my living room.

I would expect anyone that passed this through their system to be either dead or in the process of dying and in dire need of emergency medical attention.  There was no blood in the toilet…so there was no trauma.   I spent too much time staring at the s**t in my toilet.  I think I was in some kind of shock and trauma…and trying to wrap my head around anything to justify why it was there.

Part of me wanted to confront Gaucho and ask him, “HOW THE HELL DID YOU MAKE THIS?!?!?  AND LIVE!!!!?”

After some moments, I finally realized I was going to try to just flush it away. I bent down and gave the handle a push….the water slowly worked past the lodges refuge, and then began to fill again well past the “full” point.  OH NO….I was afraid that at some juncture the log would come loose and then spill over the bowl, and flop out on to my floor, thus giving me no other option than to handle it, or see if I could convince the dogs to chomp it up…either option was horrendous to think about.

The water slowly receded, and without any other option, I flushed it again, and again, and on the 4th time, the pressure was enough and the log disappeared….but it wasn’t gone,  merely braced for battle farther down the tube.   We had just, moved, so my plunger was not at the house yet and I had no option but to close the lid, and let everyone know the bathroom was off limits.    Gaucho’s parents came a short while later, and he left smiling.  I was tempted to ask his parents if THAT was the reason he wasn’t allowed to stay the night at people’s house?

“OH Gaucho can’t sleepover, he blasts out poop missiles that destroy toilets….and we need to get him home before midnight or he’ll turn into one!”

I thanked his parents, and fought off the urge to say, “AND don’t EVER bring him back AGAIN…oh, and you might wanna check the kids butthole see if his lungs are hanging out.”

I tried the flusher a few more times before heading to bed that night and there was no progress with the clog.  Franken-Turd was taking up residence and it didn’t seem interested in moving anytime soon.  I was leaving the next day and told Guillermo who was housesitting for us about the situation and that he should exercise caution in that restroom.   When I returned the following evening the bathroom was normal again.  I’m not sure if Guillermo had a knockdown, drag out, war with Franken-Turd or what, but everything seemed to be normal again…except my memories, those are forever damaged.