Over at this fine establishment they’re voting on which blogger is the king of poop stories. Hell, I cut my teeth on poop blogging. So for old time’s sake, here’s one of the all time great poop stories.

And just for the record, when you shit yourself in a foreign country, it’s much more intense. It’s a long post—hang in there, it’s worth it.

A Little Trouble in Big Tokyo

My bags were the last ones off the plane. I had just about given up when they finally crashed down the chute. I was feeling light-headed too, probably from the extreme number of drinks I had on the long flight, but I was in Japan, and I supposed that was some sort of accomplishment.

I had never been to Japan before, but I’d met these particular clients on several occasions back in the States. They liked to get drunk and they had a good sense of humor so my prospects were good. I was supposed to meet one of the guys at the airport and he’d be my translator throughout the trip. I was assured that all arrangements had been taken care of but I have a hard time relaxing when other people control my destiny.

After collecting my luggage, I headed for immigration and customs, where I was whisked through with a wave. They must assume that Americans aren’t ambitious enough to bother with. At any rate, I entered the airport proper toting a shitload of luggage and saw no one I recognized. I dropped by bags and took a good hard look around but no one was there to greet me. I had no idea what to do so I went to the information desk.

“Do you speak English?” I asked.

“Oh, Yes! You speak English!”

“Yes, I’m good with that end…but do you speak English?”

“Yes, you speak English!”

Okay, I thought, I have a fighting chance. But what fuck was I supposed to do now? I stared at the girl, and the girl stared back. I knew I had to do something...but what? Try to book a hotel? Rent a car? Change dollars for yen?

I guess desperation breeds ideas because I finally had one. I would have her page my contact over the PA system. I articulated this idea with a combination of charades, pigeon English and a business card. If he turned up I would be fine. If not, I’d have to come up with another plan—one that would probably entail a lot of tedious misery as I figured out the lay of the land. The girl paged my man and I walked a short distance from desk and slumped down on the floor next to my luggage. I had no real hope, but it was something to cling to for a while.

Luckily it worked. A few minutes later I saw my man coming towards me. He was running full speed, and when he saw me he tried to stop but the floor was too slick for his dress shoes. He went down hard and slid feet first right into another traveler. The guy was pissed that he’d gotten kicked and the two of them yelled at each other for a minute before the other guy took off. Then my colleague started to get up, but in the process he dropped the folding briefcase he was carrying and his papers went flying in every direction. He was smiling and stammering apologies as he gathered up all his papers, which were being trampled by a crowd from a new gate arrival.

When he finally picked up all his shit and stood up it looked like he’d had a long day. His suit was wrinkled, his glasses were crooked and he was bowing like the queen was standing behind me. I liked this guy. I figured he understood about every third word I said, but he always nodded enthusiastically.

He eventually got us on a bus to Tokyo proper and when we arrived he said that my hotel was just a short walk from the station. He insisted on carrying my heaviest bag. He had to use two hands and clasp his briefcase between his arms and his side. Every twenty feet of the hike he would drop the briefcase and then he’d have to scramble to pick up all his papers, which were blowing everywhere. I felt bad for the guy and I tried everything, but he wouldn’t let me help with anything. By the time we got to the hotel I estimate that he’d lost about 80% of everything in his briefcase. Somehow, he kept smiling.

After I checked into the hotel and cleaned up we hailed a cab and set off for dinner. In Japan the taxi doors open and close automatically, controlled by a lever the driver has up front. Of course, I had no knowledge of this when I climbed in and slammed the door so hard it shook the little car. The driver started yelling at me in Japanese, and Yoshi was stammering back some explanation while I just looked out the window like the whole thing wasn’t happening. I would continue to use this strategy throughout the trip. But outside the window lay Tokyo, and I was awestruck by the sight. The whole place was lit up like Times Square or the Vegas Strip.

We got out at what was described to me as, “a typical Japanese restaurant.” I opened the little sliding door and as soon as I set my foot inside someone started screaming at me. I stepped back out into the street and slammed the door closed.

I asked Yoshi, “What the fuck was that about?”

He didn’t understand the word fuck so I used it liberally. He smiled and slid the door open, and as he stepped in, they let him have it too. But he was smiling again. He seemed to be expecting it. He explained that whenever you walk into a restaurant, the employees yell something at you that means ‘Welcome’. It was very unsettling. We were seated quickly and I was handed a menu. I looked down at it hoping to see some language that I understood but I was kidding myself.

So Yoshi orders for us and before long here comes the meal and it’s a grilled octopus carved up like a Christmas goose. Slowly other dishes come out, sushi, sashimi and under-cooked chicken. As I’m sampling these various delights, people are walking into the restaurant for dinner every few minutes. Each time someone came through the door, all the employees screamed that ‘Welcome’ at the top of their lungs. It was very unsettling. I soon learned another custom. Each time a patron left the restaurant, the patron screamed ‘Goichisosama!’ at the top of their lungs. This means, “It was a feast.” At that, all the employees scream something else that means ‘Thank you.”

And if that’s not enough, waiters don’t come to your table throughout the meal. They only come if you need something--like another drink. How do they know when to come? When you scream, ‘SUMIMASEN!’ at the top of your lungs. There is so much fucking hollering going on in these places that I was a fucking nervous wreck. Scream coming, scream going and every other damn thing. The yelling continued, climaxing as we left. I got in the last yell. I just made up a word to yell, but it felt good anyway.

I woke up at three in the morning. I mean wide-awake. The time difference between the States and Japan is hard to deal with. My customer was picking me up at 8:00 am in the hotel lobby, so I had five hours to kill in my tiny hotel room. I sat there watching Japanese game shows until I stumbled across CNN in English.

Around 5:00 AM I climbed into the tiny shower. It was so small I had to shower on my knees, and with my hangover the whole thing took about thirty minutes. I was desperate for a cup of coffee but I was terrified to go downstairs and face a full-on solo encounter, but that tiny room was closing in on me and I needed caffeine.

I found the restaurant and as I stepped forward to be seated, I was greeted with a yell. I had forgotten about the yelling. Luckily it was more subdued in the morning. I was led through a crowd to a small table. The girl said something to me in Japanese, but I had no clue. “Hai!” I replied. This would be my answer to all questions posed to me for the entire two week trip. I was pretty sure it meant ‘yes’.

She handed me a menu, but it was just the little characters again. It’s not like a romance language where you might be able to figure out the root meaning...you simply have no hope. I was beginning to tense up. All I wanted was a fucking cup of coffee and I didn’t have the means to communicate it. I took out my phrase book and found the restaurant section. Sure enough it was right there. I read the phrase three times until I was sure I had it down. I was ready to order my coffee. Then I sat there for twenty minutes and no one came near me. Then I remembered no one was going to come. I must yell to get the waitress. I waited until the girl was close so I could do it as softly as possible.

It did the trick. I looked up and said, “O kudasai kohei,” but the words sort of stuck in my throat and came out garbled. The girl just stared at me, puzzled. At that point I opened up the phrase book but it took a while to find the right page again. I looked up and smiled but she had a superior look on her face, like I was keeping her from more pressing matters. At that point I really felt like jumping up and yelling, “Domo, Arigato, Mr. Roboto!,” but I’m a coward—there was no safe retreat and no one would have laughed except me. I finally found the page in the book and pointed to the word for coffee. She mumbled something and walked away. If my hangover wasn’t so bad I would have thought the whole thing was funny. But it wasn’t funny...it was unsettling. Ordering breakfast was out of the question.

So I lit up a smoke and sat back wondering what would come of my situation. Mistake number one was staying in a Japanese hotel instead of my beloved Marriott. I was sure the waitresses over there spoke English.

Ten minutes later she returned with a cup of coffee. She also handed me the bill. I looked down to see the little symbols and immediately realized I was fucked again. I had no way of figuring out how much to pay. I sat back and drank the coffee, but I couldn’t enjoy it knowing I still had to figure out the bill. I wanted another cup too, but I just didn’t have the courage. After considering my options I finally just yelled. When she returned all I could do was hold out a bunch of yen and hope she took what was right. I got the hell out of there, but not before the screaming goodbye or whatever the fuck. I went back to my room and stared out the window. I wasn’t being picked up for another two hours so I decided to go for a walk. Anything was better than sitting in the tiny room.

My biggest fear was getting lost, so I thought of a plan. I would have someone at the front desk write down the name of the hotel and the address using the kanji symbols. If I got into trouble I could just pull it out and show a cab driver. The woman at the front desk spoke some English and was happy to do it for me. She handed me the sheet of paper and I walked out the front door. I figured that if I just walked around the block I couldn’t get lost. Just keep turning right...just keep turning right.

It was just after I made my fourth right that I realized something was wrong. Either the blocks were too long or I had counted an alley as a street. Either way, I was disoriented. I reached into my pocket for a smoke and when I pulled them out the piece of paper with the hotel address came out too—and it blew right out of my hand. I started chasing it but before I took three steps I stopped. It was halfway down the street and I knew I’d never catch it. It was cold out and my fingers were numb and red. I stood there a few minutes smoking my cigarette and wondering if I should try to follow through and keep going straight or if I should try to retrace my steps back to the hotel. That’s when I felt the rumble.

There are times in everyone’s life when they get that feeling. When you know—beyond a shadow of a doubt—that you are going to shit water. Soon. And standing there on a Japanese sidewalk, not really sure where I was, I knew it was going to happen.

Panic set in immediately. I was trying to get a landmark—anything I recognized. I don’t know what district I was in but all the buildings looked the same. I started pacing back and forth...I had to make a decision. I looked up and down the street for fucking Taco Bell, McDonald’s, even a noodle house but there was nothing. Just indiscriminate looking office and bank buildings and none of them looked open.

I decided to go forward to the next corner. I set off jogging but the pressure was building and I ended up sort of speed walking. When I turned the next corner I saw my hotel, but it was a long way off. I stopped thinking about the worst and just kept going. There were no alleys to duck into, no dumpsters to hide behind...there was no choice but make it to the hotel or shit right there on the street.

Just then I passed a building with a big lobby and realized it was another hotel. I ran inside and asked the porter where the restroom was but he didn’t understand English. By that time I was past all pleasantries—I pointed at my pecker and started dancing from foot to foot and he got the picture. He walked me around the corner and when I saw the door and ran the final ten feet.

Fire in the hole!

I barely got my ass on the seat when the shit storm erupted. I don’t want to be too graphic, but it was earth-shattering. I mean the whole nine yards...extreme and explosive. Just as the first wave subsided I heard the door open and someone entered. Three, maybe four seconds later I erupted again and I heard the Japanese guy start gagging. The door opened again and this time there must have been three or four people who came in—they were all talking loudly. In an instant they all went silent—it was like they all realized some terrible force from hell was in there and they froze in place. The only sounds audible were the gagging Japanese man and the horrible, extreme sounds coming from my ass. For a moment—maybe four seconds—there was complete silence. The gagging, and even my intestines, had come to a complete stop. Then I exploded again. I heard the stall next to mine open and then the gagging man started throwing up. The door opened again and everyone ran like hell. It was down to me and the gagger and he finally made a break for it too.

It was a terrible experience. The hangover was killing me and now I had to deal with this. I was thousands of miles from home, in a strange place, hung-over with my bowels exploding. Could it get any worse? I was sure I wasn’t done yet so I sat there alone in misery for a few minutes and then the door opened again.

Silence, and then:

“Unki-do-sa?”

I knew whoever was out there was talking to me. I kept quiet.

“Ito yo tadashi kae? Iti ra?”

“I don’t speak Japanese,” I said. It came out as whine.

“Iti-da ryoska?”

Just then my ass exploded again, easily as intense as the prior wave.

“Hya! Nabo deska!”

And with that exclamation he departed. I was alone again. It took about forty-five minutes before I was confident enough to leave. As I was pulling up my pants the door opened again.

“Sir?”

He was obviously talking to me.

“Sir...do you have required assistance?”

WTF? What kind of assistance was he talking about?

“I’m okay...I’m fine.”

“You would call someone? We call someone?”

I was thinking, Yeah, call my embassy...tell them an American national is blowing mud all over Tokyo...

“No, I’m fine. I’m coming out.”

I’ve been in some humiliating situations before but this one was inching toward the top. I opened the door to the stall and stepped out. The man was staring at me and had a look of amazement on his face. I knew what he was thinking too. Tallest man in Japan shits up fancy hotel...

“You are okay, yes?”

“I’m okay. Don’t worry, I’m leaving now.”

“You go to doctor, yes?”

“Yes, I’m going to the doctor.”

He finally left...I don’t think he could have held his breath much longer. Meanwhile I took stock of myself as I washed up. I was feverish from the whole ordeal and I looked pale in the mirror. I needed to get back to my hotel and fetch my emergency medical bag before it happened again. Just as I was leaving another man came in and glanced over at me. I held my nose and made face at him. I could hear him start to gag as I made my exit.