The Big Brown Banana Express

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A 350 pound man seeks relief from chronic case of constipation.

Submitted: March 18, 2007

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Submitted: March 18, 2007





Big Bubba hadn't had a bowel movement in almost a week.

He normally wouldn't have been so concerned; he'd been constipated before, and had taken care of his problem with a cheap, over the counter laxative called POOP-A-LOTZ. But, this time, it hadn't helped. He'd drank the whole bottle with no results.

  He'd consulted his personal physcian, who'd prescribed a daily intake of high fiber products, including chocolate Ex-Lax, but to no avail. And at 6'3'' and 350 pounds, Bubba had a good reason to be concerned; a man that size could store up alot of poop, become a virtual ticking poop bomb. And, holy shit, if that bomb ever went off...........

Finally, at his wit's end, he'd consulted his ex-sister in law, Hilda, who owned a small novelty shop downtown. Among the usual items, such as chattering teeth and whoopie cushions, she also carried a line of home remedies.

''I gotta do somethin,'' he'd told her over the phone, obviously embarrassed. ''I can't take it anymore, it hurts my belly somethin awful.''

 Despite her dislike for him, Hilda helped him out, selling him a small bottle of milky white powder that came with a stern warning. ''Only at bedtime,'' she'd stressed, ''And only one tablespoon full. No more, no less. You'll regret it if you do.''

Bubba, depsite his cramped and bloated condition, stuck to her instructions the first day.

And the second. Then the third.

Nothing happened; not even as much as a small, juicy fart.

Desperate, Bubba choked down the rest of the bottle, chasing it with three bottles of prune juice. When he woke up the next morning, he felt like a new man; the bloating was gone, the cramping had stopped.


Completely exasperated, close to tears, he ran into the bathroom, squatted above the toilet, dropped his trousers, then jammed his big beefy index finger up his ass, twisting it back and forth furiously.

That's when IT happened.

He heard the vague but audible sound of a fart coming from the area of his rectum, accompanied by a wet, juicy feeling, as if a small, slimy snake was trying to squirm it's way out of his asshole. Then............

......................KABOOM!!!!!! it happened, a virtual shit explosion, followed by a string quartet of staccato farts that echoed off the walls. Oh...oh.....OHHHHH...GOD!!....HElP MEEEEEE......gonna take a ride on the ...big.....brown.....banana....EXPRESS!!!.....toot....toot.....chugga chugga ...toot..toot.....oh God it HURTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Almost five minutes later, it had stopped.

His raw, swelled up, aching asshole feeling as though he'd given birth to a hundred baby porcupines, he stood over the toilet with a small shovel, chopping and flushing and chopping and flushing, until he'd finally flushed all of the bowel-movement-from-hell down the pipes.

Hilda did this on purpose, he thought.


Glad to be cleaned out yet still feeling vengeful, he walked into the kitchen, downing two more bottles of prune juice, feeling another cramp coming on, then, a fart.

He rushed to the phone, dialed Hilda's number {Oh God, please let me hold it in a little longer}and asked her to come over, so he could thank her in person, show her how grateful he was to her.

Hanging up the phone, he went to the front door, turned around with his back to it, dropped his pants, and bent over.

And waited anxiously for the doorbell.

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