I can remember once in 2009, we were coming back from a
photoshoot in Clearwater (near the beach) and we were trying to cross over back
into Tampa. At one point there was a
bridge that was all the way up in order to allow a few ships to cross the
channel. There was a long line of cars
waiting at the base of the bridge and it was murderously hot that sunny
afternoon because you could see the shimmering waves of heat coming off the
blacktop highway. At the time it was
myself, two of the models, and my friend Joe.
Joe is a nice guy and had agreed to be our driver for the day (mostly to
meet the two models, that's kind of how Joe was back in those days) and since
Joe had a big air-conditioned truck that could carry all of our photography
equipment with ease I was glad to have him around on days like today.
We were waiting for about fifteen minutes and the bridge had
not yet went down. I was trying to
figure out what the holdup was when Joe craned his neck, turned to me and said,
"There's a sailboat that's stalled under the bridge, it can't go back down
until the sailboat either moves forward or back." and I remember thinking
that a sailboat with a stalled motor was the silliest thing I had ever heard
of. It's a SAILBOAT. You don't need motors when you're a
sailboat. Of course he hadn't been using
the sails today, he was just taking it out for a short ride in the channel for
whatever reason using the tiny motor in back for navigation and the engine
stalled right as he was under the bridge.
So we're waiting, and after a while Joe cuts the engine
because we're using gas like crazy. It
starts to get hot in the truck and the bridge STILL hasn't come down. The models are starting to sweat in the back
and Joe turns to me with a look of horror on his face.
"I have to take a shit."
I tell Joe that we'll stop at a gas station after the bridge
crossing and it'll all be good.
"No man, I have to take a shit and I have to take it
NOW."
He starts the engine and we try to do a U-turn, but we're
right at the on-ramp for the bridge so we can't go forwards or back because of
cars, and we can't go off the road because one side is a median divider and the
other side is a ten foot dirt drop-off into a marsh-bank. We're completely stuck.
Joe starts to squirm.
The models of course are horrified by everything that we've been
through. Also, their makeup is starting
to run down their faces from all the sweating we've done for the past fifteen
minutes and so even though the A/C is back on the girls now look like drunken
raccoons crying in the back of Joe's truck.
"Joe! There's
NOWHERE we can go! Hold it in!" I
yell at him.
"I have to take a shit, dude! I can't wait any more!" Joe complains.
We can't go forward in the truck, and we can't go back. Joe is now squirming in his seat like a
little kid throwing a temper tantrum, except that tantrum is with the three
pounds of feces in his bowels now howling to get out of his body. Joe's macabre dance in the driver's seat of
his truck resembles something Zulu warriors did right before they charged off
into battle. Lots of wriggling and
grunting, eyes closed tight in anticipation of the battle to come.
The models start to cry.
Suddenly, without any warning, the fecund smell of
freshly-made crap fills the whole truck.
It hits me like an invisible fist in the face, involuntarily slamming my
head to the side as the raw stench of crap (with the undeniable floral hint of
Taco Bell wafting underneath the smell of feces) drops me like a seasoned
pro. My eyes water, my head swims, the
whole world seems to take on a weird surreal quality as the awful stench gets
endlessly recycled through the air-filtration system back into our faces again
and again like a badly-skipping record.
Joe has just officially shit his pants.
Joe dives out of the truck and runs down the earthen bank
towards the reeds and the marsh, muttering some sort of apology as he dashes
away, the whole backside of his khakis with this nightmarish yellow wet stain
on it like a huge failure-circle across his entire ass. There's no sign of anything in the truck left
behind from this feco-disaster. No wet
stains on the seat, no residue on the back of the door. As far as we can tell it's all narrowly
lodged in Joe's tighty-whities as he power-walks down the earthen bank with
grim determination, drops his pants and then just lets it all shoot out of his
ass into the dismal marsh in a failure-spray so epic that it would even make
the Three Stooges proud. Everybody on
the on-ramp can see this guy let loose.
Joe thought he was out of sight of the other cars, but he was MAYBE
fifteen feet away from us at most so everybody got a good up-close look at a
big guy taking a massive pressure-sprayer projectile crap on the side of a
major highway.
Just when I think that I can't laugh any more, I suddenly
feel a huge bump throughout the truck.
It shakes me, it shakes the models in the back. Joe is fifteen feet away spraying the Florida
Everglades in a tawny-brown shower of Taco Bell residue, so I'm trying to
figure out what just happened. I look
forward, and we have just accidentally rammed the teeny little
Ford Focus five
feet in front of us.
Joe had fled the truck without putting the transmission back
into "park." He had basically
left it in "drive" and had been riding the brake the whole time when
he dashed out to go take a shit. Now we
had idled forward and bumped the car in front of us. Out of instinct, the Ford Focus pulled
forward as much as it could, and of course Joe's truck idled forward obligingly
and rammed it a second time, this time hard enough to crack the plastic bumper
of the Focus with a sickening crunch.
"NO!" cries Joe, his fudge-filled khakis dangling
around his ankles, looking up at the low-speed accident. "My truck!" He starts to hobble up the earthen bank
without bothering to pull up his pants, and the sight of his shit-stained
backside waddling closer and closer to the highway makes everybody honk their
horns in panic. I'll never forget it to
this day. A cacophony of terrified
motorists honking their horns in panic at the crazy guy with the shit-stained
backside hobbling up the embankment... completely bottomless. They're not honking their horns to warn him
of danger. They're honking their horns
to keep him away from their cars, the children, their grandsons and
granddaughters.
And, at that point, one of the models in the backseat throws
up in the truck. Her internal limit has
just been reached.
I wish I could tell you a happy ending to this story, but
there is none. Neither model would ever
work with me again, and they both tried hitting me up for extra money for
having to endure this horrible afternoon.
Joe ended up having to call his insurance agent and his $1000 deductible
on the car accident made it an unforgettable afternoon in his eyes. Joe eventually sold that big truck and by
2011 I had never heard from him again, partially because I think he blamed me
for everything that had happened that night.
As his wife put it, if he hadn't gone to help a friend, none of that
would have happened.
Every time I drive through the city of Clearwater though and
I hit the channel bridge to go to Seminole I always think back to that day (no
matter who I'm with) and it always makes me smile. The best stories are always like that. The great stories always make you smile, even
when it's the worst possible circumstances, and even if the story is based on
awful things happening to really nice people.
To send me a super amazing gift to help me build up my new
store or to thank me for my hard work visit my amazon wish list. Every gift
is deeply appreciated and each generous giver will receive photos of
myself and their gift!
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work:
Shakeshift's Superheroine Adventures by Dawnstar Productions
To start off the morning Shakeshift went out again and bought me another breakfast of champions: OATMEAL! With two flavors. When he bought the oatmeal at the drive through he ordered it plan, then they ask you what flavor you want to add to it. He told me he ordered both and they were like "...what". I guess that's an uncommon thing to do in Florida.
Shakeshift, Caroline Pierce, and VIP were all sitting down to dinner after a long day of shooting. When suddenly Mike hears an odd faint clicking noise near the front door. Mike gets up and opens the front door and to his surprise a SWAT team tumbles into the house. The SWAT team begins to search the house for any child sized objects, towels, candy, anything that would indicate a child being present. The SWAT team pulls everyone outside of the house, models in full Wonder Woman attire. As soon as VIP and Caroline come out of the house all the male SWAT members flock towards them getting photos with the models while Mike and Shakeshift are handcuffed and manhandled overtop a SWAT car. Apparently an elderly neighbor, who had nothing better to do with his time, had been curious the whole weekend about what was going on inside the house. He would be sneaking around the property and once he realized the girls were dressed up the elderly man chose to call the SWAT team claiming there was child pornography being filmed.
What will become of our models and photographers? Will we get kicked out of the house? Tune in next 
