Let me tell you about this traumatic, yet hilariously outrageous day in my childhood. Picture this: It’s 1991, I’m five years old, and I’m being dragged to my very first waterpark. Sounds like a summer dream, right? Wrong! Because who is babysitting me? None other than Aunt Brenda, or as I lovingly call her, “Aunt Bitch.”

Now, Aunt Bitch was not your garden-variety relative. No, no, no! She was the kind of person who could make a room full of joy feel like a cold, dark dungeon. Whenever she babysat me, she’d shove me into a room where the only light came from the flickering bulb that looked like it was about to explode. No TV, no toys—just silence, or else! If I dared to make a sound, I was rewarded with a fist to the face. Seriously, I think my childhood was sponsored by “Silence of the Lambs.”

So, here I am at the waterpark, and what am I doing? Holding towels. That’s right! While all the other kids are splashing around, riding slides, and living their best lives, I’m standing there like a goddamn towel butler for Aunt Bitch and her spoiled daughter, Jessica. You know the type: the kid who cries for a candy bar and gets a hundred-dollar bill instead. I’m pretty sure Jessica could’ve bought the waterpark with the amount of whining she did.

I’m standing there, fuming like a pressure cooker ready to blow, while Aunt Bitch is lounging in a chair, sipping her overpriced margarita and yelling at me to “be a good little boy.” I’m thinking, “Good? I’m about to commit a crime against humanity here.”

After what felt like an eternity of holding towels, I finally muster the courage to approach Aunt Bitch. “Can I go down a slide?” I ask, using my sweetest five-year-old voice, which, by the way, was the same voice I used to convince my mom to let me get a puppy. But Aunt Bitch? She didn’t buy it.

“Only if you sit on my lap,” she growled, like I was some kind of prize she won in a bad carnival game. And let me tell you, sitting on that woman’s lap felt like sitting on a bag of rocks—sharp, unforgiving rocks. But, desperate times call for desperate measures.

So, we climb up the slide, and I’m thinking, “This is it! This is my moment!” As we reach the top, I’m filled with a mixture of excitement and dread. Just as we start to go down, I decide it’s time for a little payback. The kind of payback that would make even the Joker proud.

Right there, as we zip down that slide, I feel a rumble in my tummy. This is my chance! I take a deep breath, and with one glorious push, I unleash the beast. Folks, I’m talking about a five-year-old’s version of Mount Vesuvius erupting all over Aunt Bitch's lap! I mean, it was a full-on disaster. I’m pretty sure I could’ve taken out half the waterpark with that explosion.

Now, the slide was slick, and Aunt Bitch was holding on for dear life, but she wasn’t prepared for the toxic tsunami that just hit her. As we splash into the pool at the bottom, I look up at her, and for the first time ever, she’s speechless. Her face? Priceless! It was like she just tasted the world’s worst pickle.

And the best part? The lifeguard’s reaction. This poor kid’s jaw dropped, and he turned pale as a ghost. I’m pretty sure he thought he’d just witnessed a crime scene. Meanwhile, Aunt Bitch is sputtering, “What the hell?!”

I can’t help but laugh. I mean, I’m five years old, and I just pulled off the perfect act of revenge! “Welcome to the waterpark, Aunt Bitch! Hope you enjoy the ride!”

From that day on, I learned two valuable lessons: First, always have a backup plan when dealing with relatives. And second, never underestimate the power of a well-timed poop. It’s like the ultimate weapon for a kid with no power.