S06E05: Bruises and Secrets: The Misadventure of Cranston O'Leary
**Host:** Tim Carroll
**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...
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RSS Feed **Host:** Tim Carroll
**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.
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Cranston O'Leary looked a fearsome fellow,
especially now with his bruised face, fat
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lip, swollen black eye, and
the horrendous gash which ran from it all
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the way to the top of his
forehead. His small group of friends at
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the Muddy River Hotel, which was
the seedy bar where they all regularly relaxed
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in a few stiff drinks on the
occasionally gave a pool, tried their hardest
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to coerce from Cranston the no doubt
shocking details of his words. Cranston was
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a big hug who stood a little
over six foot and who was built like
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the proverbial brick shit house. Come
on, Cranston, tell us what happened,
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and sent Benny the jet as one
of the small group of other rough
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heads who sat drinking and talking with
him down. I don't want to talk
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about it, Benny, and said
Cranston with sea Jesus made. If that's
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what you look like, I'd hate
to see the other boat quit Benny eagerly.
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I told you, mate, I
don't want to fucking talk about it,
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responded Cranston, and Mercy as he
threw back another shy of straight jacked
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ambuls. A little jukebox over in
the corner of the bar now rumbled out
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of the opening cords with a George
Thoroughgood classic Bad to the Bow. I'll
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give you this, Cranston, you
are one hard bastard, said Benny,
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before he too lifted his glass and
threw down his shod of burden. The
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truth of the matter, however,
was potentially even more horrific than Benny or
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the others could have ever guessed it. It had all started five days beforehand,
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when Cranston I felt the bloating annoyance
of an eye oncoming case of terrible
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constipation. The big guy had spent
what seemed like hours sitting on a can
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at home, all to no avail. Over the next few days, he'd
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tried everything from extra fiber on his
cereal to an ungodly amount of proves,
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and even a handful of lax had
tablets, which he finally bought from a
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chemist. Had a fit of desperation. Five days without being able to release
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the pressure building inside him, without
even the tiniest of bowel movements, had
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the big brood of a man in
a terrible disposition. It was last night
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when Big Cranston couldn't stand it any
longer. He'd gone into his neat little
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bathroom, vowing not to come out
until he'd had some success. With his
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old blue jeans and box assorts pulled
down around the big black leaves at his
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ankles, Cranston was determined to have
a desperately kneeded pool. He pushed,
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and he pushed. His face became
a contorted nightmare. The sweat began to
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beat upon his forehead as he finally
fought he may have been making some pogress,
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but still nothing. Cranston took one
more deep breath and with all of
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his mighty pourshed again. His stomach
and all the organs inside tightened with the
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effort. He grimaced as his face
turned bright red from the pressure, and
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as he pushed just as hard as
he could, all the blood rushed from
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his head as his vision blurred,
and poor old Cranston passed out cold,
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pitching forward off the white ceramic toilet, crashing his head onto the cold,
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hard, unforgiving rem of the little
bathtub which sat just in front of him.
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When he finally came to his front, teeth were chipped and his face
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was smashed. Taking matters even worse, there was not seemed a gallon of
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putred stinking pooh all over the place. Come on, Cramston, tell us
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about the fight. Would you try
to meager Benny the jet one more time?
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He said, I don't want to
fucking talk about it, Benny,
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answered Cranston with a growl,