She had indeed shit in the pool, and everyone paddled away in big arcing splashes.

I once got pulled into a motel room where a drug transaction had just went wrong.

From the walkway in front of the rooms you had a great overview of the troubled women bathing languishing in the swimming pool beneath the Modesto moon and the motel lights.

Some in the pool were still wearing cut-off jeans and a t-shirt; others were blobbily naked.

To explain: some were blobbily fat, some were meth-y.

As I was looking down a weedy male meth-head tried to hit me on the back of the head with a motel lamp, but it was still plugged in and he came up short, then curled tight into a ball on the green cigarette-burned carpet. I tapped him in the ribs with my shoe but he didn't move, other than gently rocking back-and-forth.

Someone I didn't recognize came rushing up the outside stairs and a meth-head in the pool shouted "HE'S THE ONE!" but no one could tell who exactly she was pointing at, or what it was about exactly, and the meth-head had a twelve-pack, so everyone ignored the girl yelling in the pool and I figured it was a good time to leave.

I was there to collect a twenty I had loaned an impoverished youth at the bar previously, but he had slipped away sometime earlier; I made my way down the stairs towards the parking lot when someone blindsided me, pushed me against the pool fence and tried to weakly stab me from behind. He cut my side a little, but the knife slipped and he cut his palm wide open, then cried for his Mexican girlfriend.

I don't know if this other girl meant to distract me or help me, but one of the chunky jeans-and-t-shirt girls in the pool with rooster hair shouted "I SHIT IN THE POOL" and pointed at a sad floating dark object at the surface in said pool: she had indeed shit in the pool, and everyone paddled away in big arcing splashes. The shit moved back and forth buoyantly in the water but it seemed like everyone was unscathed: it was relatively solid.

I got in my car and drove home, then passed out on the couch. The next morning I went to the doctor and he gave me four stitches. Four stitches? I was STABBED! BY A GANGSTA MEXICAN! But no: just four stitches.

I am glad to no longer live in Modesto.

I am Laslo.

http://althouse.blogspot.com/2015/07/is-it-rude-to-tag-people-into-twitter.html