**Audio Designer:** Anton
In this rib-tickling yet slightly grim episode of Tall Tales & Short Yarns, we step into the Muddy River Hotel, a dive where the drinks are stiff and the company is rough around the edges. Here, we find Cranston O'Leary, a man whose formidable stature is overshadowed only by the battle scars he's wearing on his once-imposing face. His friends, a motley crew of hard-knocks themselves, are itching with curiosity to unravel the story behind Cranston's bruised visage and the gruesome gash that marks his forehead.
Cranston, the man built like a fortress, is adamant about keeping the details to himself, despite Benny the Jet's relentless prodding. The jukebox sets the scene with "Bad to the Bone," but little do they know, the tale behind Cranston's wounds is far from the brawl they imagine.
Rewind five days, and we discover the root of Cranston's woes is not one of fists and fury but a battle of a more... personal nature. What ensues is a harrowing saga of constipation, desperation, and an ill-fated trip to the bathroom that leaves our protagonist in a dire and messy predicament.
Join us as we explore the lengths to which one man will go for relief, and the unexpected consequences of pushing beyond one's limits. This episode is a messy mix of humor and humility, reminding us that sometimes, the most epic battles are fought in the solitude of one's own bathroom.
**Note:** Be prepared for an episode that might just have you laughing until you cry—or at least until your sides hurt. This story is not for the faint of heart or the weak of stomach, but it's a reminder that sometimes, life's most humbling moments make for the best stories.
Cranston O'Leary looked a fearsome fellow, especially now with his bruised face, fat lip, swollen black eye, and the horrendous gash which ran from it all the way to the top of his forehead. His small group of friends at the Muddy River Hotel, which was the seedy bar where they all regularly relaxed in a few stiff drinks on the occasionally gave a pool, tried their hardest to coerce from Cranston the no doubt shocking details of his words. Cranston was a big hug who stood a little over six foot and who was built like the proverbial brick shit house. Come on, Cranston, tell us what happened, and sent Benny the jet as one of the small group of other rough heads who sat drinking and talking with him down. I don't want to talk about it, Benny, and said Cranston with sea Jesus made. If that's what you look like, I'd hate to see the other boat quit Benny eagerly. I told you, mate, I don't want to fucking talk about it, responded Cranston, and Mercy as he threw back another shy of straight jacked ambuls. A little jukebox over in the corner of the bar now rumbled out of the opening cords with a George Thoroughgood classic Bad to the Bow. I'll give you this, Cranston, you are one hard bastard, said Benny, before he too lifted his glass and threw down his shod of burden. The truth of the matter, however, was potentially even more horrific than Benny or the others could have ever guessed it. It had all started five days beforehand, when Cranston I felt the bloating annoyance of an eye oncoming case of terrible constipation. The big guy had spent what seemed like hours sitting on a can at home, all to no avail. Over the next few days, he'd tried everything from extra fiber on his cereal to an ungodly amount of proves, and even a handful of lax had tablets, which he finally bought from a chemist. Had a fit of desperation. Five days without being able to release the pressure building inside him, without even the tiniest of bowel movements, had the big brood of a man in a terrible disposition. It was last night when Big Cranston couldn't stand it any longer. He'd gone into his neat little bathroom, vowing not to come out until he'd had some success. With his old blue jeans and box assorts pulled down around the big black leaves at his ankles, Cranston was determined to have a desperately kneeded pool. He pushed, and he pushed. His face became a contorted nightmare. The sweat began to beat upon his forehead as he finally fought he may have been making some pogress, but still nothing. Cranston took one more deep breath and with all of his mighty pourshed again. His stomach and all the organs inside tightened with the effort. He grimaced as his face turned bright red from the pressure, and as he pushed just as hard as he could, all the blood rushed from his head as his vision blurred, and poor old Cranston passed out cold, pitching forward off the white ceramic toilet, crashing his head onto the cold, hard, unforgiving rem of the little bathtub which sat just in front of him. When he finally came to his front, teeth were chipped and his face was smashed. Taking matters even worse, there was not seemed a gallon of putred stinking pooh all over the place. Come on, Cramston, tell us about the fight. Would you try to meager Benny the jet one more time? He said, I don't want to fucking talk about it, Benny, answered Cranston with a growl,