Once upon a midnight screening, I kept shifting forth and leaning
Over many a cramp and furious teeming at my bowel’s core;
Stomach knotted, kinda snappin’, as if #2 might happen
Would my person soon be crappin’? Crappin’ out my anal door?
“‘Tis only vapors,” I muttered, “nothing in the chamber stored—
Only gas and nothing more.”
Then at once I did remember that at lunch I did surrender
To a chimichanga vendor vending chimis door-to-door.
He ignored my quick dismissal, then produced a deep-fried missile
That inspired me to whistle like a missile as it soars.
With a pronto he asked “cuanto?” and I answered en rapport:
“Cuatro por favor, señor.”
So I paid and got my order and I tipped him with a quarter,
And before he hit the border, left a name of Salvador.
All at once my heart was beating as I closed the door retreating,
To that seating place for eating—not the dining room, of course
To that seating place for eating near the TV on the floor
… just as every meal before.
So I placed those chimichangas (which resembled mini-congas)
On a bed of many mangas situated on the floor;
But before the first unwrapping, it occurred that I had trappings,
Customary chimi trappings slapping ‘gainst my fridge’s door:
Salsa, pre-mixed guac from the store, cheese, and sour cream galore
… who could ask for one thing more?
Back inside that cheesy screening, listed I, a ship careening;
Braving waters not well-meaning—crashing at my rectal shore.
If my colon started croakin’ and my butthole seal was broken,
Would it come out dry or soakin’? Would it whisper? Would it snore?
All these burning, yearning questions I could no longer ignore
… as they knocked at my back door.
Left and right I started turning, all my guts within me churning
Soon again I felt it burning, somewhat stronger than before.
“Surely,” said I, “it’s just a leak. Some gas to pass—no need to freak.
I’ll execute the one-cheek-sneak and some order I’ll restore.
Just let my fart be meek and weak and seek no reek, I implore.
Break the wind and nothing more.”
So I leaned with little effort and instead of just a zephyr,
I released a mighty heifer that stampeded with a roar.
Not the least bit quiet was it, which was mostly made of shit
And exploded like a zit inside my tighty-whitey drawers!
I slid down inside my seat and smeared the contents even more;
After that, the film strip tore.
So this ebony girl beside me turns around and starts to chide me;
Then a guy behind derides me: “that’s what toilet bowls are for!”
Soon the rest began their teasing; some were laughing some were seething
At the guy who cut the cheese and cut the cheesy screening short.
What was once a full-length feature had been cut into a short
… by the shit-bomb in my shorts.
Lights came up and I sat plainly with an odor so insanely
Drifting up and outward mainly penetrating every pore;
And those poor defenseless beings started having trouble seeing
Through the fumes so disagreeing even breathing was a chore
All at once all were agreeing to start fleeing for the door!
… left alone, I sat and swore.
Like some shitting bird-man species, perched atop its nest of feces,
I kept lashing out with word against the turd that I had bore.
Then I farted with a sputter, which then grew into a mutter,
‘Til a froggy voice did utter “Why the long face? Why so sore?”
I looked around the empty room—aft and fro and to and fore
… all I saw was poor décor.
Startled at the stillness broken, my reply was “who has spoken?’
Silence followed ‘til the croakin’ was awoken like before:
“I’m the one” it said, “who said it. I’m the one that you should credit
For the midnight screening edit and the stench that lingers o’er;
I’m the one that turned the tighty-brighty-whities that you wore
Into tighty-browny drawers.”
It was clear from my conversin’ with a voice that had no person
That a breakdown was rehearsin’—mental health was growing poor.
With a fear that it might worsen, I got mad and started cursin’
At the voice that had no person—I was cursin’ like a whore!
Then The Voice it interrupted like some toady troubadour:
“When it raineth, it doth pour.”
Now, initially I figured that The Voice’s speech was figured
But that figure got disfigured when I figured out the score:
What I thought was just expression to describe the foul progression
(Of a midnight screening session unlike any theretofore)
Ended up as actual downpour from the ceiling to the floor!
It was cats and dogs indoors.
See, it seems there’s lack of wisdom in your average sprinkler system
For my rank digestive system made it wrongfully outpour.
I’m assuming that the fuming’ from a shit that was not human
Tricked the wet into presumin’ that a fire was in store!
Soon the flood it turned to mud the nutty crud inside my drawers
… And The Voice returned full bore:
“Waterlogged I’ve heard, but really? This is altogether silly!
Pun extended, you are really up shit creek without an oar!”
“Enough!” I cried “you Voice of sooth! Now show your face and face the truth
This hide and seek was fun in youth but right now it’s just a bore.
Your entity’s identity’s a mystery I abhor!
So appear and let’s explore!”
And just like that, the vile morass that stretched between my pants and ass
Became the floating, fudgy mass that amassed and hovered o’re.
“I’m the mystery voice,” it sneered “the smeared and muddy shit you reared
And just to make things extra weird, I’ll further it furthermore:
I’m also the slender vendor from the land of Ecuador
… You can call me Salvador.”
In shock of this shenanigan, I froze up like a mannequin
And almost shat my pants again but avoided the encore.
Then the karma metaphor I met before as Salvador
Spoke in broken English jokin’, like in his vendor days of yore
“’Til now your most brown amigo was just a chocolate Labrador;
… But it’s not like that no mores.”
“Now I’m your little kaka pet—all smeared around and soaking wet
And every time you take a chet, you will know the word “deplore”
I actually don’t know the word, it’s just a word I overheard
But know that when you drop a turd, in your culo I’ll be Thor—
And by that I mean I’ll hammer like the thunder God of War!
… just kidding. Just tip me more! You cheap suvunuh beesh!”
The moral of the story? Tip your Latin workers and vendors and tip them well—they work their asses off.