Direct from Alaska, Crapspotting Turdespondent Mitch K. presents this exclusive report:
My family and I just spent a week on the Star Princess cruising to and from Alaska. I had never been on a cruise before, but was well aware that both the cabins and the bathrooms were smaller than a breadbox. With my eating habits, this would in no way be a good thing for me, my wife or my two kids. Odds were that they would throw me overboard after my first dump. I made sure to clean the pipes before we boarded, however, as soon as the first wave hit, I'd have to let it fly and then sneak out of the room to avoid the wrath - or so I thought.
We arrived on the ship last Sunday around 2:00 pm and I figured disaster would surely strike before midnight. By 3:00 pm, we had completed a warm up round one at the buffet. By 4:30 pm, after a fruity, rum-vodka "welcome" drink and a light beer, I had added half a cheeseburger, fries and a slice of pizza, along with a fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie to the mix. It was going to be lethal, but no pre-dinner dumpage. Dinner that night consisted of at least a four course meal with a spicy cajun shrimp pastry-encrusted entree finished off with 2 scoops of butterscotch ice cream and a bite of my daughter's blue cheese from her international cheese plate. And just to make sure my schpincter would not dissapoint, I capped it all off with a double decaf espresso. I was with my brother-in-law, who probably ate more than I did during this initial run. He also had my same predicament - sharing a room with his two daughters.
After dinner, with both of our brew lights on red-alert, we were able to temporarily put them on yellow as the casino had just opened and the money was burning holes in our pockets. Had we actually made a run back to our rooms at that time, which were right next to one another, after our respective explosions, they, no doubt, would have had to have quarantined the Starboard rear section of the Emerald Deck at least for that night and perhaps for the rest of the cruise.
In any event, as we were watching my dad roll dice, Darren gave me one look and I knew exactly what he meant. If he did not find a place to drop his deuce on the double, he'd give new meaning to the word "craps." By that time, I had $25 on the pass line and another $50 at 4:1 that he'd keep his shorts clean althoug the rest of the crowd, seeing the look of horror on his face, had their money at 3:2 that he'd have to launch his boxers before he retuned to the table. He bolted to the back of the casino, not knowing if, or when, he'd find a bathroom in time, and came back 15 mintues later with a big smile on his face and looking 5 pounds lighter.
It was not the extreme relief he obtained that put the smile on his face, but the pure pleasure he experienced in unknowingly stumbling upon nirvana tucked away between the hallway between the casino and the Grand Showroom. (Yes, he made it succesfully and I netted a quick $100 after winning Darren's bet and shitting out at the table) As the photos reflect, this mini-suite of a dumper came complete with a ship-to-shore (shit-to-shore?) phone for the extended session and had leg room to spare. All that was missing was a little bed on which take an interim nap. I believe the crapper was dialed directly into the engine's exhaust system - not a remant of the scent created by the strongest of yiddish gastrointestinal systems was ever left behind. Aaron Spelling had it all wrong - this is what "The Love Boat" is all about. I am convinced that we were the only ones to stumble upon this sacred palace as it was never occupied and was always freshly cleaned, cleansed and sanitized.
Thereafter, every morning after a quick stop at the Lido Bar for a Double Americano, I took the steps one floor down, and headed for the casino, gently picking up the pace as the taste and aroma of the coffee turned my brew light a bright red, arriving just in time to evacuate the prior day's consumption.
My family and Darren's family wish to thank Princess for this hidden gem of a john.
