No Control The remote control slip out of Grant's hand, fell between his legs and plopped into the dirty toilet water. He had been looking forward all day to watching American Idol, his fav. The guy's on the road crew had been talking about the new chick on there that hit all those high notes. Grant read somewhere that Pat Benatar had sang opera or was trained as an opera singer or some shit. But this chick on Idol, all the guys on the crew liked her. Liked her hell, they fucking loved her or they would have loved to fuck her. Even Toby, that quiet fucker who didn't say shit if he had a mouthful was turned on by her. Grant asked him point blank and Toby gave him a look that had 'Duh' written all over it. They stood around and bull shitted, leaning on their shovels or on the sides of the one dump trucks. The goddamn Caterpillar D10NC Bulldozer shit the bed again and they had to wait until the that creepy Sid Emerson, their so-called onsite mechanic got done yanking his pud and fixed the dozer. It had been no skin of Grant's nose, as long as there were doughnuts to eat, coffee to drink and butts to smoke. He got paid by the hour whether he broke a fucking sweat or not. So, fuck them if they can't take a joke. The crew kept talking about that Idol opera singing chick. If she was a day over twenty-two Grant would eat his hard hat. And he said to the guys if Steve Tyler wasn't knocking her boots yet, Grant would eat his goddamn BVD'S too, after a drinking binge during hot wing night at Applebees. He was glad they didn't hold him to that bet.
All day long Grant leaned on his shovel and bullshitted with the guys just about until quitting time and the fat ass foreman showed and said that Sid had fixed the Dozer and then asked who wanted overtime. Grant bowed out claiming he had the trots and that he'd been "shitting his Goddamn brains out all day long on that fucking Ameri-Can that everybody said pinched their ass.
There was no way in hell he would miss his girl on Idol. But wouldn't ya know it, as soon as he got home his stomach acted up and he ended up being on the can shitting his brains out for six hours. Every time he thought it was out of his system and he went into his living room to relax a little, maybe smoke a stogie and drink a cold one, all these fucking fists clenched in his stomach and he'd barely make it back to the shitter, throw the seat up, drop trou and shorts and piss liquid shit from his ass. It burned like fuck. He be damned that he would miss American Idol. During a less painful bowel moment that wasn't a movement. Although he thought that would be funny, somebody shitting their pants during American idol. Grant squeezed his checks together, ran into the living room and set the television up in the bathroom doorway on a kitchen dinette chair. He stretched the electrical cord and plugged it into the outlet used for blow dryers, curling irons and other female crap. Luckily he had excess cable wire coiled up behind the tv. Fox was showing the last five minutes of a Simpson's episode. Grant liked the Simpsons but for the moment didn't give a shit about them now. Idol would be on soon and his stomach seized him again, like someone cinching his tummy tight like a lady's girdle. Another wave of cramps washed over him and for a minute he thought he was having a hear attack. Gas filled him up to the point where even his balls hurt. Each wave hurt more than the last. The next one hurt so bad he stood up while still on the bowl and screamed. that was when he dropped the remote control in the dirty toilet and the channel changed to QVC, no way was he going to fish that out and he couldn't reach the manual control on the television. His bowels clenched so hard that he thought his heart might stop from the agony. Idol was on right now and he wanted to see the chick. Instead he was stuck with the goddamn hag from the Quacker Factory or something and her tacky old lady clothes. He
reached out with his foot to try to turn the channel and his ass slid off the porcelain and he had almost shat on the seat bowl and himself. Oh damn it, damn it, damn it. He guessed he would have to wait until everything took its course. "Shit," he said out loud and did just that.
All day long Grant leaned on his shovel and bullshitted with the guys just about until quitting time and the fat ass foreman showed and said that Sid had fixed the Dozer and then asked who wanted overtime. Grant bowed out claiming he had the trots and that he'd been "shitting his Goddamn brains out all day long on that fucking Ameri-Can that everybody said pinched their ass.
There was no way in hell he would miss his girl on Idol. But wouldn't ya know it, as soon as he got home his stomach acted up and he ended up being on the can shitting his brains out for six hours. Every time he thought it was out of his system and he went into his living room to relax a little, maybe smoke a stogie and drink a cold one, all these fucking fists clenched in his stomach and he'd barely make it back to the shitter, throw the seat up, drop trou and shorts and piss liquid shit from his ass. It burned like fuck. He be damned that he would miss American Idol. During a less painful bowel moment that wasn't a movement. Although he thought that would be funny, somebody shitting their pants during American idol. Grant squeezed his checks together, ran into the living room and set the television up in the bathroom doorway on a kitchen dinette chair. He stretched the electrical cord and plugged it into the outlet used for blow dryers, curling irons and other female crap. Luckily he had excess cable wire coiled up behind the tv. Fox was showing the last five minutes of a Simpson's episode. Grant liked the Simpsons but for the moment didn't give a shit about them now. Idol would be on soon and his stomach seized him again, like someone cinching his tummy tight like a lady's girdle. Another wave of cramps washed over him and for a minute he thought he was having a hear attack. Gas filled him up to the point where even his balls hurt. Each wave hurt more than the last. The next one hurt so bad he stood up while still on the bowl and screamed. that was when he dropped the remote control in the dirty toilet and the channel changed to QVC, no way was he going to fish that out and he couldn't reach the manual control on the television. His bowels clenched so hard that he thought his heart might stop from the agony. Idol was on right now and he wanted to see the chick. Instead he was stuck with the goddamn hag from the Quacker Factory or something and her tacky old lady clothes. He
reached out with his foot to try to turn the channel and his ass slid off the porcelain and he had almost shat on the seat bowl and himself. Oh damn it, damn it, damn it. He guessed he would have to wait until everything took its course. "Shit," he said out loud and did just that.
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