A Time To Poop

Greetings!

Today we have a very important topic to discuss. This is a topic that I hold near and dear to my heart. Some of you may be “grossed out”, or may not want to read this blog because it's “asinine that anyone would write about such a thing and it proves that Charles is a degenerate and suffers from the same de-evolutionary symptoms that he rails against time and time again in public discourse”. But please, just hear me out.

Sometimes, we poop our pants.

Am I right? I mean... sometimes it just HAPPENS people. None of us are perfect, and sometimes we accidentally mistake a runny bowel movement for a little flatulence, and we wind up with muddy shorts.

Trouser Chili, to be specific.

Sometimes we wind up with an adobe smear between our cheeks as if they were bricks being put together by some archaic master of masonry.

This happens. I know several people to whom it has happened in their adult life, and I am willing to bet that even the people who say “that never happens to ME” are lying.

This is a story about a time when I deuced myself.

Let me preface this story with two other stories. First off, some background on why I have had a propensity to deuce myself perhaps more often than others might. I'm not saying that I DO splatter my pants more often than others. I am merely saying that (in the past) there was a definite cause to my lack of control that caused the particular situation at hand.

I am a bulimic. I am recovering, slowly, just as I am recovering from about three dozen other raging character defects which have consistently caused me misery and strife over the years. Wikipedia (I love Wikipedia) notes in their article on bulimia that it can be diagnosed as (among other things):

Purging type bulimics: self-induce vomiting (usually by triggering the gag reflex or ingesting emetics such as syrup of ipecac) to rapidly remove food from the body before it can be digested, or use laxatives, diuretics, or enemas.

Did you pay attention to that part about the use of laxatives? I had that. I would, off and on for several years, use laxatives of a couple different varieties as a method of weight control. It is a very ineffective mechanism by which to control your weight, as your body is still absorbing almost all of the nutrients and fat in the offending food. But the disease is one of compulsion, and I acted on this behavior as such.

The second “pre-story” is just to explain to you that at one time I found myself living in Greeley, Colorado with a girl who was plain faced and generally unremarkable in every way except that she had the foulest breath I may have ever smelled, and she was obsessed with “World of Warcraft”. I saw this chick play twelve hour stretches of this game, talking to her imaginary friends through a cheap headset on her computer, and getting really upset when one of her “raids” (or whatever the hell they are) didn't go well.

I have nothing against gaming or gamers. I love video games. But some of these World of Warcraft fans have taken this addiction thing to a new level. It's strange and foreign to me. I have never peed in a bottle so that I wouldn't have to get up from my computer, interrupting a video game for two minutes. I know a couple of WOW players who have. That's all I'm saying.

So me and “Gertrude” (her fictional name here) had nothing in common. She would ramble on about her video game in words painted with a mysteriously horrible odor from her mouth over dinner, and my eyes would glaze over as I looked around the room to find anything to distract me. A TV. A bar fight. An old person. Whatever. Anything was better than listening to her talk about leveling up with her freakin' night elf character.

We found ourselves in this situation as we sat at Point A on the map of Greeley (See Below). Point A is the Armadillo, My favorite restaurant in the world. It is awesome, and I highly recommend the “Chili Con Queso” cheese dip. It is heavenly.



I believe, although I am not certain, that I may have ingested some Exlax in order to lose enough weight to become physically appealing to... well... anyone besides Gertrude. We ate dinner, and as we got up to leave the restaurant, I had the passing thought that I ought to blast a dook there before we left. But I figured: “we're going right home anyway. I can hold it.”

So we got in this girl's Lexus (she had some rich grandparents who had bought her a Lexus which got shitty gas mileage, cost hundreds upon hundreds of dollars to service, and was insanely expensive to insure. Good move, gramps, you moron). We were driving along the blue line indicated on the map, back to Point C (my apartment). We got a couple of blocks (to Point D), and I realized that I absolutely should have used the facilities back at Point A.

“Hey, I have to use the restroom, like, RIGHT now,” I said.

“Oh no. Can you wait 'til we get home?”

I moaned. I knew I was seconds away from a blow-out of British Petroleum proportions.

“No. Take me to a gas station.” I would have screamed it, but I felt if I made any sudden or strong action, I would lose it.

I regretted leaving Point A. I wanted so bad for the toilet in Point C (a cheap “American Standard” knock-off, but I would have crapped in ANYTHING at the moment).

I moaned some more.

“Drive FASTER,” I said, directing her to Point B, a Conoco gas station ran by a nice Oriental gentleman and his (presumably) wife.

She seemed agitated, and drove faster.

“Almost there,” she said.

We pulled into the gas station on the east side of the building, near the side door. The bathroom was twenty feet away from me. A mere fifteen seconds. I opened the car door, but realized that I could NOT stand up. I had that intense feeling that if I moved at all, even one iota, I would surely fill my drawers up.

I sat there and Gertrude looked at me with fear, concern, and bewilderment.

“Are you... ok?”

I thought about it, and then moved a half an inch up out of the seat to test my fortitude. My stomach gurgled and I sat immediately back down, knowing that I couldn't move.

“I dont think so,” I muttered. I waited. I was in tremendous pain and I waited for the wave of pressure in my colon to subside so that I could stand up. But the pressure just got stronger. And stronger. And stronger still until I knew that whether or not it caused me to “let go”, I would HAVE to stand up and move towards the bathroom.

It was a calculated risk... I knew I didn't have very good odds.

I stood up maybe three inches off of my seat this time and the release came. My shorts ballooned up with a warm feeling, and I felt instant relief, such that I just sat back down in Gertrudes car, mushing the offending “matter” all over my shorts and down the back of my thighs a little way.

I got a little smear of it on the very edge of the front of her seat.

“Can you go back home and get me some new shorts?” I asked, looking over at her with embarrassment.

“Yes. Are you ok?!” she said.

“I'm fine.”

The smell was awful. I stood up and wandered into Point B while Gertrude drove back to Point C to get me some clean shorts. I felt the ooze running down the back of my legs. This was terrible.

Below is an accurate depiction of me at that moment, waddling into to the Conoco.



When I left that bathroom at Point B, it probably looked like a cow had exploded in there. Paper towels and toilet paper everywhere. My shorts, smelling like dead kittens and rotten milk, sat in the corner, slung over the side of a trash can. It took a solid half an hour for me to get everything cleaned up. I donned the new shorts that had been delivered to me, and exited the bathroom feeling confident and refreshed.

Ready to take on the world.

“That's REALLY gross,” said Gertrude.

And that, my friends, is the story about when I POOPED in a girl's LEXUS.

P.S. The relationship with Gertrude collapsed soon thereafter because of World of Warcraft, stinky breath, and a number of other factors. I don't know where that girl ended up.

If you're out there, Gertrude, can you tell me: is there a stain on your passenger's seat that reminds you of me every day?

To anyone else out there: has this ever happened to any of you? Any part of this? I need someone else to share my pain with, and I'm actively looking for a “Pants-Shitter's Anonymous” twelve step program to join. Anyone? Anyone?