So you sit there, wondering why you ate those huge blocks of cheese during the past couple of weeks, feeling like you're carrying around an anvil inside your butt, and nothing will ever come out, ever again, so you resign yourself to standing up, unsuccessful for the thirty-fourth time, when you hear that gurgling sound in the pit of your stomach, and YES, it just may happen right now, so you bear down, grunting and groaning, and your face goes bright purple-red, and you imagine that you're gonna have a stroke, right there on the toilet, so the headlines will read "Man's Head Explodes When He Takes A Dump," and your friends will make fun of you at the funeral, pointing and laughing at your casket, blowing fart noises on the backs of their hands, and you will lie there ashamed in your coffin, turning as bright purple-red as you are right now, still grunting and groaning, still trying to get rid of the butt-anvil cork so your pallbearers' spines won't snap like twigs when they hoist you up onto their shoulders, and then you feel like your sphincter is gonna rip right open, the obstetrician saying, "You're eight centimeters dilated, things are going well," and you fly into a rage because that effete cocksucker is calling out measurements that no real flag-waving God-fearing American could ever understand, so why the fuck doesn't he convert metric into inches and feet and friggin' YARDS, or at least fingers, like "You're three fingers dilated, now four, and now I can slide my fist into your ass, so you'll never be heterosexual again," and your friends will call you "queer," and your face will turn purple-red from shame, almost as bright as it is right now, and you can feel the turd crowning, holy shit, there must be massive ripping and tearing, 'coz the butt-anvil is coming out sideways, and you beg the obstetrician to go ahead and make you light-in-the-loafers by reaching WAY up inside and turning that fucker around so your ass won't be quite so disfigured, hell, you had a cute virginal ass at one point in your life, before you started gobbling down all that cheese six months ago, and the butt-anvil is spreading your cheeks so wide that you'll never be able to fit into a standard-size airline seat again, they'll force you to buy two seats like that enormously fat guy on the cable channel who can't fit through his front door because he's so damn hefty, and you wonder if you'll ever be able to fit back through your own bathroom door, the situation seemed so innocent when you walked in, eight hours ago, to make your eighty-seventh attempt to get rid of the anvil that's been forming a butt-plug in your colon since you started eating all that cheese fifteen years ago, and you sit there with your chin resting on the back of your hand, like that sculpture by Rodin, wondering if the great man ever looked at his own handiwork and sniffed the faint whiff of farts and turds and liquid diarrhea, oh for the lovely release of a watery squirt right now, you remember that picture of the kid who had a bad case of the explosive runs, so he stood on top of a block of granite, dropped his trou, bent over and had his friend take a snapshot of the powerful geyser-like brown blast that shot out of his ass, and you think, you ponder, you meditate like Rodin, and you fantasize about being frozen in this position, so the local newspaper takes a photo for their Weird Shit section, "Man Who Became A Statue While Attempting To Push Out A Gigantic Butt-Anvil," but you don't know if you have the courage to keep squeezing, pumping and grunting, so you pray to the Greater Butt Intelligence Of The Universe, saying, "Please deliver me from this crossroads, I am at an impasse, and I will never question the holy goodness of your laxative-like presence again, if only you will have mercy on me in this, my hour of need, I will promise to sing your praises to all my friends, and make them so bored that they will begin to avoid me and my Born-Again Butt fervor," and then a white light descends upon you and you feel a pain in your no-longer-cherry ass that is more intense than any pain you have ever felt, and you begin to wonder if it might be toaster-in-the-tub time, but you retreat from the awful specter of self-annihilation by breathing deep and fast, panting breaths, and you squeal like a stuck pig, and you hear a small splash in the toilet water, and you moan your gratitude and you feel a relief like you will never-ever-ever feel again in your entire life even if you live to be a hundred and fifty, and you look down to see that the product of all this pain and sweat and monumental effort is only the size of a small marble, and you realize that you'll be forced to go back to the beginning and start all over again.

Shit.