In anticipation of this post, my parents both dug graves, got in, and proceeded to roll. There are some stories better left untold. However, my filter for such things is currently broken, so without further ado: The story of me pooping my pants at work.
The day started in totally normal fashion—feeling good, ready to be productive.
Typically, I spend my day making busy-at-work faces at my monitor. This day was no different. I was somewhere between my morning ritual of reading email and checking my
fantasy football team stock portfolio when I felt a run-of-the-mill fart come on. I was expecting a French horn D-flat; you know, a little musical note—but instead I got a silent guy … with what seemed to be moisture?
Me (to self): Uh, I think something awful just happened.
I immediately reached for my coat to wrap around my waist and did the clenched-butt-cheek-shuffle to the bathroom. A bead of sweat formed on my temple. I caught a glimpse of my face before I entered the stall—paper-white.
Me (to myself): Please, Lord, let my butt be dry; and if not, please let it be contained to the body and not my clothing.
God: Sorry buddy. This isn’t the typical emergency I respond to. You’re on your own.
I had pooped my pants. Shit—literally. Code red alert sirens were sounding in my head. A quick bottom-half disrobing confirmed my greatest fear—my costume would need to be changed. Immediately.
I checked my pockets and found no car keys. Fuck! I would need to go back to the office before making my escape to my house to address my wardrobe malfunction. I returned to my desk as casually as possible, waited five seconds, then pulled out my phone and began an urgent and totally fake conversation.
Me (to no one, and at high volume): You’ve got be kidding me! Are you serious? OK, I’ll be right home.
Office guy: Is everything ok?
Me: Yeah. I mean no. I’ve gotta run. I’ll be back soon. Just a shit I need to deal with. SOME shit. Just some shit I need to deal with. I’ll be back soon.
I awkwardly speed-walked to my car and drove home. It was a strenuous drive, partially squatting (much like I imagine girls do in porta-potties) so as not to jeopardize my car seat. Fifteen minutes later with thighs all aquiver, I arrived at my house. And then I remembered the nanny was going to be there. F-bomb again! How was I going to explain this away?
Me: Hey nanny—I’ve got to change clothes real quick. Important meeting I forgot. You should go to the park.
Nanny: We were on our way out.
Me: Why are you looking at me like that?
Me: Just kidding—you look normal. I like to make awkward jokes. Have fun at the park. Seriously—you guys should go now.
Nanny: Just going to pack a snack and go.
Me: Unnecessary. She’s looking pretty well fed. If anything, she’s getting a little fat. Just go. JUST GO. And have fuuuuun!
They left and I got down to stripping. I didn’t even bother to try to save my clothes—they hit the trash, and I showered and got dressed again. I replaced my gray corduroys with gray jeans so as not to draw attention to myself. I’m pretty much a shit-on-yourself genius.
I rushed back to the office. Crisis averted, lesson learned. No fart is innocent. A zero-tolerance policy was implemented: The remainder of the day would be fart-free. And then, it happened again. An immediate butt clench came half a second too late. A quick pelvis thrust attempted to spare my gray jeans of the same fate my cords had just suffered—again, to no avail.
WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!?
At this point, I’m reevaluating my life. God is doing this to me. Why has he forsaken me? What did I do to deserve this? I announced a sudden onset of the flu, wrapped a jacket around my waist, averted my eyes and shuffled out of the office.
I can’t explain the medical situation I’d encountered. I was symptom-free (aside from the obvious) and yet I was experiencing the single worst ailment of all time. Ever.
When my wife got home I detailed the day’s events.
Me: I know this will limit my sex-having ability for some time to come, but I can’t stop pooping on myself.
Wife (dumbfounded): Poop-ing? As in multiple times? Did you eat something?
Me: Regular food. I have no explanation. I think I’m being punished for being so handsome.
Wife: I want to feel bad for you … but I don’t. I mean, seriously. Stephen. You’re an adult.
Me: Don’t judge me. I videotaped your birth, Miss I-Live-In-A-Glass-House.
Wife: There are a lot of things you could have just said. That might not have been your best choice. I’d like to send you to the couch for the night, but I’m not sure that would be a very prudent decision. That couch was expensive.
With jeans in short supply I went to sweats. Had a glass of water, had another … accident.
I slept on a towel that night. In the bathroom.
Next day? Totally fine. The entire event remains a mystery. I guess it could have been worse. But, let’s be real – who hasn’t experienced this EXACT same experience?
-The Rotten Avocado.