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It was intimidating. There had never been this many people, a venue this large. They could play an NBA game in this arena. Focus. He had loaded up on carbs and proteins for a week. Two days ago, he switched to 100% fruits and vegetables with some additional soluble fiber. Used an anti-diarrhetic to keep a lid on things until the moment of truth. It has always delivered a solid result. Some competitors had digestive consultants who concocted elaborate eating protocols to maximize scores; he was old school.

Despite the perceived disadvantage, he was in the 2nd position. Ideal in the finals. Striking distance from number one. Had a good idea of what he had to beat.

He was a legend in the game; one of the earliest players. But legends fade. He was a misfit compared to the other competitors. Tall and skinny, some would describe him as lanky. Most players were at least 100 pounds heavier than him. Somehow, he had held his own; he was in the finals.

No one knew this but win or lose, it was his last competition. He had a lingering health issue that would not heal. More accurately he had not let it heal. He was ready to retire from the game he had helped create.


The origin of the D sports was a confluence of events. As the world turned digital and food less healthy, the average kid turned more sedentary and larger than previous generations. More time indoors playing video games, and more processed food, led to a secondary game downstream of gaming. D Sports. More specifically, a competition to see whose bowel movement was the biggest. The earliest competitions were more subjective based on strictly visual evidence, but soon man’s competitive spirit solved this issue with precise displacement measurements in a regulated container with highly accurate gradients.

He was one of the originals. All-night video games were a lot of fun with his friends, but things would drift to other contests once they were bored with the gaming. All the soda, pizza, chips, and other junk food led to a pooping contest.

Once his friend Kevin came out of the bathroom at 2AM claiming he had just taken the biggest shit in history! Everyone had to look. It was impressive and the game was born. Visual inspections led to pictures and finally to water filled kitchen bowls. It was fun and disgusting at the same time. They started talking about it at school and it led to games being played all over town.

Once enough guys started bragging at school a sort of tournament began. From there it spread regionally and then nationally. The sponsorships made it a sport. TV was just a matter of time. With endless sports programming, the demand for content was insatiable. The ratings did well with males 18-49; women did not register on the demographic polling. Lots of adult hotline ads with broadcasts after midnight.

D Sports also had that anyone-can-do-this appeal, like guys watching golf imaging they can perform at a level anywhere close to a professional. Make the biggest turd possible. That was the only barrier to entry for D Sports. The sport had seen some armchair quarterbacks qualify.

Over time its popularity grew to the international markets, but Americans had an inherent advantage. Obesity soared in the US in the later 20th century and accelerated into the 21st century. When the league started getting the diabetes treatment commercials, jackpot. Networks new D Sports would not be another failing football league that gave it a go every decade or so. Some WWE guys would even do cameo dumps; the TV Demo correlation was very high with Wrestling.

“Smell what the Rock is cooking!” They were able to use that crossover line until about 5 years ago when Dwayne Johnson became the highest grossing actor in the world. Then the right guy called the right guy, and it was banned for use in all broadcasts, commercials, promos, etc.


“Not today playa! I feel it is bra. Today I am dropping the record holder. Go home bitch!”

Maurice, he thought. That fat ass. Opportunist. He could not make it to the league from D1 ball, so he switched to D Sports. Some sort of injury, apparently. He was an awesome tackle in college at an FCS school who would have been drafted despite the secondary league pedigree.

If he was honest, Maurice had excelled, even dominated D Sports. From bum rushing quarterbacks to unleashing hell on American Standard toilets; he was elite. Maurice rose from regional obscurity to coming into the finals with the lead, in his rookie season. With no weight limit in D sports, the bigger the guy, the bigger the turd. He dropped a record breaker in the Denver regional to advance.

He ignored Maurice. Different generations. If he retorted there would not be a common reference that would translate. He had barely qualified in Houston to win his berth. He had to drop the biggest deuce of his life to catch Maurice in the finals.


In the early days, measurement was a challenge. Some proposed weight, which required removal from the bowl. Well, that could get messy based on the consistency of each contestant’s product. Who had eaten fiber that day, who had diarrhea, etc.?

Volume became the preferred measurement. That left each competitor’s attempt in-situ. It started crudely with kitchen cooking bowls. Anything with a comparative scale on the side. That has evolved to a purpose-built toilet with a digital displacement scale now down to the micron. There had been a tie at the millimeter level that led to the demand of another decimal place.


Feels like shitting glass; that is how he described competing with an anal fissure. Then sitting under a burning match for the rest of the morning while the pain subsided. The incident happened in the offseason. Fans of the sport always want to compete with the players. He went to a Pro-am for the payday.

He partied with the sponsors the night before and “Dropped his bomb” in the morning with his amateurs dehydrated. Damn that guy from Dallas was annoying. He kept bragging he was going to beat the legend. He had pushed out a winner to shut up the tourist and had been reinjuring the fissure ever since; daily.

Superstition kept him from fixing it while competing. That was coming to an end tonight. He was getting a twofer next week. He had just turned 50 and it was time for his first colonoscopy. The Doc agreed to do a fissurectomy at the same time.


Go time. He was on the throne. About an hour ago, he took the kind of diuretic you take before a colonoscopy. Minutes ago, he locked up his sphincter like so many times before. He barely got into the booth and de-pants before the initial rush. You get 10 minutes to score, and then you vacate the throne. Arbitrary, but agreed upon for years. He had to be careful. With each wave he would stand up to alleviate the pain of the act.

Once last salvo. Aim it. Damn it, off center! His final drop missed the bowl. Lost volume. He loitered for another minute, then dressed, hit the time button, and exited. Only 3:23 of the 10 minutes used. Not sure it was big enough.


His wife would not come to the events; was repulsed by the concept. Still, it paid the bills. She came tonight for the final competition. Their cover story had been that he was a salesman to explain his trips away to friends and most family members Fake sales wins and losses, imaginary troublesome clients, travel miscues, etc. Several husbands in their neighborhood knew the truth but played along out of respect to her. His brother-in-law had kept a lid on it so even his parents and in-laws did not know.

“Well babe, I left it on all the field, or in the can as it were.”

“Please, don’t discuss this, when can we leave?”

“I just need to find out what Maurice does; there is a turnaround on each attempt that ties nicely into long commercial breaks. This one might take even longer. Off target at the end.”

“Gross, shut up. Which commercial, ED, Diabetes or the Hookers?”

“All of them honey; call them phone escorts dear” He looked around to make sure they were out of earshot of any advertisers who might be at the finals.


His misfire had created a little more income for the league. The turnaround for Maurice’s attempt ended up taking twice as long. A little banter between the commentators and then a double tranche of commercials.

Maurice entered the throne after an elaborate entrance replete with an entourage. This was in the bag unless something unforeseen happened. Still, he thought, finishing second on my way out will be okay. Time to pass it off to the new generation. He had his piece of the league.

And some of the new guys had the flash. Grow the sport. It would be good for him financially while he figured out his next act. D Sport had not blessed him with F U money; simply living money.

Suddenly there was a commotion in the back. A few medical technicians were rushing to the stage towards Maurice and the throne. A hush fell over the arena, then the murmurs started and combined into a dull roar. No one could figure out what was happening. A few minutes later, the commissioner came to the mic.

“We have the results. In first place, from Denver, CO Maurice “the beast” Jones.” The crowd roared, but where the hell was Maurice? He would not miss being crowned the winner. The man’s name was announced next. Runner Up. He got the proper conciliatory applause and cheers for a legend past his prime.

He tuned out the commissioner as he announced the other placements. There was some prize money for the others, but no one cared. The storyline had been the old war horse trying to hold back the tide of the new generation one last time, and he had failed. Where the hell was Maurice? He would never miss this triumphant moment.

One of the assistant producers tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, “Mike, where the hell is Maurice. I want to congratulate that asshole and get the hell out of here.” His wife strongly seconded that sentiment.

“The real scoop is, Maurice likely just dropped the biggest mud dragon ever recorded in our sport, and a good dose of blood with it. He fell off the throne screaming. The med tech said Maurice and his people kicked them out and did not let them render aid. They have already snuck out the back. Maurice was shouting ‘No one is touching my money maker’”

The man smiled, looked up, and said “Welcome to the real game, Maurice.”



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