Hoofball Camp Extraordinaire
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Pip the Potty Pony's Story

Hoofball Camp Extraordinaire

So! Be me, 17, about to become a junior in high school. I was attending Equestria High, as you girls know, and by this time had known the other colts in my class year pretty well. My best friend, Dusty, was set up next to me at hoofball camp because I didn't trust anyone else to kick me awake. Yes, kick, I'm a heavy sleeper and they'd get us up at 5 am up in Snowflake, Marezona to go for a few miles' jog, then run hills as an entire team.

This was the dawn of the third day there. The coaches were old and nice stallions who knew my grandpa, had coached against him for decades, so I was on pretty good terms with the coaching staff despite sucking whale nipples at hoofball. This morning, this FUCKING morning, I wake to some of the worst diarrhea of my life.

Now, I'm allergic to milk, and had avoided everything milk-laden in the crappy lunchroom meals that had been provided us. Little to nothing in the breakfast area had a lack of milk save eggs, so for the past two days I had been eating nothing but mounds of eggs in the morning. I'm a big colt, I eat a lot, so let's just say I freaked out some of the incoming freshman with the amounts that I ate and leave it at that.

Well, little did I know that these eggs were reconstituted with condensed milk. Gallons of the stuff went into the dehydrated eggs, and I had been eating it nonstop.

So that morning, it's like riding a piece of dynamite. Shit's spraying all over the toilet, my bunghole's burning, and I'm calling out for help from Celestia, Luna, Discord, and a whole slew of pony gods I can't remember now. Anyone/thing that would abate the burning liquid magma. All to no avail.

Finally, 15 minutes later, I shakily exit the bathroom. One of the coaches, the son of the head coach and a real nice stallion, asks just what in the fuck had been going on in there. We shared the gym we were sleeping in with two other schools, so some colts had gotten worried and reported in to him about the horrifying sounds issuing from the bathroom. I explained my situation, and he immediately understood. "I had that yesterday dude, you don't have to run if you can't. I'll totally understand, and no repercussions or anything like that."

So, I've got a choice to make. Either I pussy out and receive thee same kinda abuse another kid the year before had received, in the form of teasing and targeting during drills, or I pony up and try to run two miles, plus hills, while clenching my hole with the force required to crack a walnut.

Eeeeexactly. I go with "pony the fuck up", naturally. My best friend is there, and I'm not going to lose his respect.

So I walk into the bathroom, and jam my asshole with a wad of toilet paper. I stuff it so that when I stand up straight, not so much as a fart can escape without the toilet paper going off like a canon ball.

I head outside, and the whole hoofball team is lined up. This young coach was super fit, and would run along with the team for encouragement. He was surprised to see me, and when I explained what had transpired, he was impressed. "Got more balls than I did yesterday. I didn't even run, remember?"

Oh yeah.

Fuck.

Too late now, we're off!

The whole 170 or so of us start off in lines four across, jogging out of this junior high gym and into this tiny, sleeping town. In this area of northern Marezona, it's not quite forest and it's not quite desert. There are tall trees like you would find up in the mountains, and in some places they're pretty thick, but the ground is a sandy texture with river rocks all around. Used to be under water for thousands of years or something.

So, we're off through this town. Everything's hills, roads, and off in the distance you can see the railroad tracks snaking out for miles. The town of Snowflake is higher than the surrounding area, so you can see clearly in all directions.

So, a mile passes no problem. We run along the main road, and eventually we reach our destination: the tallest, longest hill in Snowflake.

Unfortunately, it's a driveway. A driveway of asphalt, winding up from the main road at about a thirty to forty percent incline to someone's driveway. This person has allowed the hoofball team to use their driveway, which is about sixty yards long, as a means to workout the team. Directly next door, the only other thing occupying this hill, was the town graveyard.

I learned later that this was the curator's house, and they had cleared that area of the huge hill (which used to be part of the graveyard) specifically so he could build his house there.

So, off we go. Four at a time, we're running sprints all the way up this winding driveway. The trees are thick enough that you can't see off the hill, and no one on the road can see us. As you start up the driveway, to your right would be the main road moving on to the railroad tracks. If you were to stand on the hill with no trees, you could see the railroad meandering into the distance under the rising sun. Real pretty, I guess.

None of us cared. The sprints were brutal, and halfway through just one you would be feeling like your legs were Jell-o. All the way at the top, you were huffing and puffing like nothing practice could do. Of course, that's where the nice coach was standing, encouraging people to push through to the end line.

When I made it up the first time, he was smiling. "Still with us huh, Pip?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Your, uh... protection holding up?"

Actually, it was. A little saturated, and a bit of pressure had built up from pushing so hard as I ran up the hill, but the TP wad was going strong.

"Well, just remember, you can head off over there and take care of business if you need to," he says, indicating the right side of the driveway. Over there is the road, remember? But, the trees were thick enough that you could be out of sight from both the immediate road and the hoofball team.

Everything's going great. Everyone is pushing hard, having a difficult time, but we're improving ourselves. All that good stuff.

I made it to run number six out of ten when it happened.

Halfway through the sprint, I feel the TP give. It's not a wet feeling, as much as a sudden release of pressure that scares the shit out of me. (Eh? Eh?)

I'm just out of range of the coach, but I stopped in my tracks. Moving slowly off to the side of the driveway, I started walking calmly up the incline toward him. Group after group passes me, some yelling and asking what's going on, but I ignore them.

When he sees me, the coach knows what's up. He just nods towards the trees behind him, and I head that way.

So, I continue out onto this hill, moving around the trees and some cacti, until I'm out of sight of the other hoofball players. I am still within thirty or forty feet of the grouping area up there, though, so I can just barely make out their forms through the low hanging tree needles and a cactus. Still withing perfect hearing though, and I could tell some were asking what had happened to me. Coach told them not to worry about it, and when they pushed, he threatened them with an extra sprint if they didn't drop it.

True bro move, and completely appreciated.

Anyway, that's as far as I can go due to a chain link fence. I'm blocked from the other guys, I've found a clear area, but the only problem is that I've got a clear and uninterrupted view of that same road hundreds of feet below, going on and on for miles adjacent to the railroad. The sun was on my face, and I figured that was about as majestic a shit as I would ever take, so I may as well get it over with.

Squat down (perfect three point stance, BTW), and I see that the TP has indeed come out. The thing is useless, entirely soaked with both sweat and, on one side, liquid shit. It's like I had dunked it under water and then smeared it through a scat pile, and It's just flopped out.

I gingerly pick it up and chuck it away, and then inspect. Besides a bit on my legs, nothing runny and nothing to worry about. I was relieved, but the gurgling of my stomach told me I was far from out of the woods. (Come on, that's fucking hilarious.)

So I figure let's get it done, and start pushing with all my internal might. I hold as much breath as I can inhale, I clench my abs, I dilate my sphincter, and we're off!

I swear to Celestia, that was the most horrifying and yet relieving feeling I've had to date. The shit was coming out of me like you wouldn't believe, and I'm just facing forward with my legs bent as I watch the morning traffic slowly moving into town beneath my crouched form far below.

There's a good straight seventy seconds of uninterrupted shit that comes spewing out. I'm half terrified it's going to splash and cover my hooves, but at that point, all I cared about was evacuating my bowels. That was when I realized just how ridiculous the situation was: taking a shit in someone's front yard, watching the highway from afar, with colts I've known 3+ years running hills just thirty of forty feet away.

When it finally abides, I glance back to see no shit whatsoever around my hooves. In fact, I don't see any shit ANYWHERE. I glance forward, backward, side to side. I try shuffling forward, checking under my hooves, anything I can imagine. Shit's nowhere to be found.

Finally, I glance up as I'm looking back. there, under a low drooping tree, there is a steaming puddle of shit that has somehow sunken into the sand to form a perfect lake. It's more horrifying than anything I could have imagined, because the tree is a good fifteen feet from my pucker to the base.

I can't lie, I'm impressed.

I feel the next wave coming on, the telltale twisting of my intestines, and I decide this time I've got to watch. There's no way that could have happened, I tell myself. No way. Maybe I was bent too far forward, and it arced through the air? Maybe I shuffled forward more than I though in pursuit of the ghost shit?

Nope. As I looked on in morbid fascination, the next round of burning feces launched from my asshole, arching majestically through the air to land in the exact same spot. It even caught and reflected the glare of the rising sun back at me.

I always thought those goofy movies where they hook up a hose and spew brown water from the other side of an actor was fake. I'm here to tell you, it's not nearly as improbable as you may think

So, I've finally run out of shit (so I thought at the time...). I'm bone dry. Can't lie, I'm fairly impressed with myself. The pony body is an incredible thing, truly.

So, now I've got a problem I didn't think about. I've got liquid shit in my ass, no more buttplugs, and a mile to run back to base once I'm finished. The fuck am I going to do?

So, once again it's time to search. Thankfully, I didn't have to look for long. Remember, this area was once under water, so along with the sand there's a fair amount of smooth rock. Thankfully, there was a small amount in a batch next to me.

Something I've failed to mention up until this point is that I'm a hairy colt. Even back then, the summer between sophomore and junior years, I was a grotesquely blanketed colt. And the hairiest part of me, bar none, is my asshole.

I've always explained it like this: When you wipe and you come away with more hair than shit, you're too hairy. When your asshairs sometimes knot together across the gap and you have to rip them out just to allow your shits to pass unhindered, you're too Celestiadamned hairy. But most of all, when you're so hairy that your anus could easily pass for that of a forty year old stallion's, you've got some issues in puberty.

I'm beyond that today, but just try to imagine little young me trying to clean the liquid shit from just such an ass with nothing but old sea rocks found covered in sand on the ground of the high desert.

I start off by just wiping/blowing the rocks clean and running them up my crack straight-razor style, but quickly figure out the shit is more spread out than that. In fact, it runs from the tip of my crack to the start of my gooch, and from halfway across one flank to a quarter of the way along the other.

So, I try grid patterns. The sensation isn't necessarily uncomfortable, but the smell of rancid pukeshit and the texture (imagine oatmeal with about seven times more water than is needed) really didn't make it a pleasant experience.

Pretty fast, I realized two things. One, I had run out of rocks to use. There was a pile of them, covered in shit, sitting a few feet to my left. No amount of scraping them off in the sand would clean them, so I was forced to discard after one use each.

The other thing I realized was that I had failed to get all the sand off of the rocks as I had used them. Not only had the burning diarrhea weakened my bunghole, I had made it purely raw using literally sandpaper to clean the pink eye.

It burns with the passion of a thousand papercuts, all of them disinfected with lemon juice, and all located in my sphincter. How the hell do you think it felt?

I have to lower my standards at that point. I go to ever-decreasing sized rocks, pretty much anything that had a straight edge and would clean shit. Eventually, I'm down to rocks that size of my eyelid trying to clean myself.

By that time, I've gotten sick of the monotonous discarded shit rock pile growing beside me. So, I'd started to make a game out of tossing the used rocks into the shit puddle behind me. Each one that hit gave a satisfactory "ploop!" as it landed and submerged, never to be seen again.

So, I'm finally done. I'm as clean as my asshairs will allow me to be, and there are no rocks anywhere within eyeshot. Listening, I realize I haven't heard the colts talking for quite some time.

I emerge on shaky legs to find the driveway abandoned. I walk down briskly, trying to stretch, and find a wagon the entire coaching staff had taken out there still sitting in the driveway. The coaches all look up and hail me as I descend.

"Hey there, Mr. Pip! Taken yer sweet time, eh?" asked the head coach, a nice old coot and the father of the bro coach.

I sheepishly ask if they have any TP, and the two coaching brothers (head coach's older brother was the line coach) look at each other. "Well, we've got a lot of napkins in the wagon you can use. Head up on the other side of the driveway, right up next to the truck here, and clean yerself off."

I'll take anything at that point. I grab a hooffull of the napkins, everything they have, and head on up. This side, remember, is looking through the gates at the graveyard at the other side of the house.

I find three thick trees right off the bat, ringing around a tiny flat space. One tree blocked the view from the truck, one from the house, and the other from the majority of the graveyard. It's as close to a bathroom stall Celestia has ever created, and I plan on taking full advantage.

I thank Celestia for the obvious miracle of nature, and start to squat down in anticipation of using real cleaningwear, while my cornhole's sending signals of imminent death by fire.

I ignore it, and just as I get into position, I start to get the feeling that something's off about the ground around me. It's too soft, too devoid of rocks, and my feet were sinking too far into the compacted sand. I started to lift one leg, and saw about a thousand black ants crawling vengefully out of their destroyed home.

Now, understand this: I'm also allergic to black ants. I was bit four times on a leg once, and the whole thing swelled up, turned red, was hot to the touch, and oozed green liquid. I was NOT going through that again!

Pulling out of the squat, I raced around the trees to the other side. Still sheltered from the truck, but if there was anyone in the home or graveyard who decided to look at the beautiful trees, they'd see much more than they bargained for.

So, I squatted, set aside three or so napkins as Buttplug v. 2.0, and start wiping. Halfway through this blessed set of napkins, my guts decided that they just weren't done evacuating themselves yet. So, once again, I started watering the plants in this graveyard curator's front yard with my own special brand of brown water.

I aimed for the damn ant pile that had denied my presence earlier, and I think I managed to drown a few of the little fuckers through the tree. Anyway, when that was done, I wiped as best I could with what I had and stuffed myself Thanksgiving-style once again.

Heading down the hill, I told the coaches I was finished. They asked me if I wanted a ride back in the wagon, but again, that was only for really injured colts (like, concussions and broken bones). I politely declined, and told them I would finish up my sprints.

They told me I didn't have to, but I felt like I was cheating my teammates out of my work just because of some personal issues, yadda yadda. I finished up my hills under their watchful gaze, and then started my way back into the heart of town on my own.

Now, I wasn't afraid to get lost. I wasn't afraid of getting abducted. I was more afraid than anything that my buttplug would come undone as I jogged the mile back, leaving me with soiled legs and soiled soul. I actually had to stop jogging every four hundred feet or so, just to clench down and make sure my guts weren't going to pop it out again. Needless to say, I got some weird looks from the town residents.

Well, in the end, I made it back alright. I had missed breakfast, but I didn't really want to fuel the nightmares any more than I already had. So, I walked into the bathrooms and took my one and only shower, during the four year career of hoofball camps.

I'll tell you why: the coltsfrom the other schools were very open around there. They'd walk around buck ass naked, compare wangs, like it was nothing. If you had garments or towels hanging out of the shower, they were stolen. Colts on the train there and back talked about whacking off in the showers, spitting tobacco in the showers, and relieving themselves in the showers, both #1 and #2.

I didn't want to be anywhere near the things, but on this ONE occasion, I figured it was worth the risk. So, I spent the next hour in the shower with a bar of soap, cleaning myself thoroughly. And let me tell you, ya don't know hell until you've rubbed yourself raw with rocks covered in sand and then had to clean the same area laboriously with Dove soap.

Little did I know, though, that my clothes had been knocked down behind me. Not stolen, but knocked down. They were soaked so badly that I couldn't wear them to practice as was mandatory. So, I had to march back into the gym full of a few hundred dudes in nothing but a towel, and then explain to everyone around me why I had missed breakfast. From then on, I was handed quite a bit of respect (and a little fear of insanity) by the rest of the colts around.

To this day, I refuse to eat reconstituted eggs, my asshole tingles when I think of the rocks, and anyone from hoofball during my stay will groan when they hear the words "Pip" and "shit" in the same sentence.

But the best part, I think, was learning at the end of camp from the coaches that the graves actually used to be located where I was shitting. I felt very paranoid of Poltergeist-esque acivity when I got home, coffins coming out of the ground and shit being thrown at me from a demented clown toy, etc. Luckily for me, I only came away with a few weeks of nightmares, a whole lot more respect, and a story that entertains at parties or, in this case, campfires.

Author's Note

"A bit more terrifying than your Hash Ringing watchamacallit, don't you think Rainbow Dash?" Pip asked proudly, turning with a smug smile.

To her credit, although she looked queasy, RD managed to keep her s'mores down. The Cutie Mark Crusaders had long since left. "You... ya got me there, Pip," she groaned, shaking her head. "But if you really want to open this can of worms, I can tell you the Jolly Rancher story."

"And that's where we call it a night!" Applejack commanded loudly, giving the two ponies a disgusted look.