We’re Back! And with Some Class (or a Poop Story)
Rejoice, rejoice, the hiatus is over. Why did we take a hiatus? Well technically only I took a hiatus, all the other writers just took my short absence as a cue to stop writing (thanks guys). Honestly though I’m sure you’re all wondering to yourselves, “How hard is it to write some Goddamn dick jokes and dissect antebellum hate mail?” Well it’s really hard, okay? The real truth is that I usually write during my lunch break at work, and for the last two weeks I’ve been incredibly busy. Sometimes a man needs a break, writing with one hand and sloppily eating a turkey sandwich with the other hand isn’t exactly a siesta.
But enough about me, if you actually cared about me you’d call (you never call!). I’m sure you’re already tired of reading about my boring present life, so instead let me regale you with a tail from my less boring past. Consider this story your Spring Break Reality Check. The story is about dealing with high pressure situations. The story is about the time I came within inches of crapping my pants on the first day of college.
When I awoke, bright eyed and eager to chase my future on that August morning, I had no idea what was in store for me. The prospect of attending my first college classes was exciting to say the least. Of course not exciting enough to have stopped me from drinking the night before school started, but you know, kind of exciting.
The reason I mention the drinking is not to convey to you how cool I am (you already knew that, I have a blog), it has a purpose. When I was 18 I was still afflicted by that teenage curse, acne. And since my usual solution to problems, cutting, wouldn’t make that acne disappear, I was forced to take medicine for it. The acne medication was innocuous enough. It didn’t make me want to kill myself and only required me to take a pill in the morning and a pill before bed. Up to this particular day I had done a pretty decent job following instructions. In fact, my first day of college was no different, I followed the medicine directions to a T.
The problem with this day is that, unlike the entire summer, when I went to bed at 3AM, I didn’t wake up at noon. On this day I woke up at 7AM for my 8AM class. One of the more humorous side effects of this medicine, one that I was actually aware of, is that if you took the pills within six hours of each other, there was a possibility of diarrhea.
Now I’m no pharmacist but my assumption is that when you subtract two hours from that minimum time difference and add a stomach full of beer and shitty pizza the forecast goes from “cloudy with a chance of diarrhea” to “explosive brown showers imminent.” So the night before, around 3AM, I took the pill, as instructed. When I awoke the next morning I again took the pill. Explosive brown showers were indeed imminent. I didn’t realize what I had done, not until it was far too late. You can be rest assured that I had I caught my mistake early enough my arm would have been elbow deep in my throat trying to regurgitate the medicine.
My first class went fine. There weren’t any rumblings in my stomach, no noxious gas, no sign of diarrhea at all. Nothing happened until the walk back to my dorm room. It was about 5 minutes into the 15 minute walk that I began to feel a bit…off.
The diarrhea manifested itself quickly. The speed with which the chemicals turned my stomach sour was both impressive and terrifying. The diarrhea was like a blitzkrieg, and almost immediately I knew my feeble, Maginot Line-esque colon wasn’t going to hold for long. I was ten minutes away from my dorm, and five minutes away from envying the reputation of those guys who threw cotton balls all over the Black Culture Center lawn.
When the urge to rocket feces out of my ass first hit, I increased the pace of my walk considerably. That strategy didn’t hold though. The worse the diarrhea got, the more my pace messed with my stomach. I steadily slowed myself to a turtle walk as any sudden movements were sure to lead to disaster.
You may be wondering why I didn’t duck into another building and look for a bathroom. There are two reasons for this. First, most of the buildings were school buildings, and campus was in between classes. I wasn’t risking crapping my pants in a strange building full of people. Second, as I said, it was my FIRST day of college. My knowledge of the campus was poor. I didn’t know where bathrooms were in any of the buildings, I was on a B-line for my dorm.
My dorm was on the far side of a hilly street. When I crested the hill, now only 50 yards from my dorm, I was living life second by second. At any moment my insides were liable to be outsides. By now I was sweating profusely, both from nerves and the sheer physical and mental willpower I was deploying to keep from pooping my pants. Suddenly I called an audible. Our neighbor dorms were just to the right of me. I thought that if I could get in and use those bathrooms, they would surely be as deserted as my own dorm bathrooms. I waddled up to the door and pulled. Locked. FUCKING LOCKED! I had my ID but it would only open the doors to my dorm. Desperate, I waddled over to the next door, I begged God to make the next door open. Locked again. I cursed the campus security. I would have traded a thousand campus shootings to avoid my own personal impending tragedy.
The pressure in my rectum at that moment cannot be overstated. It was otherworldly. It was a toxic pressure that, if it were in Japan, they’d have been pouring seawater on it for weeks in hopes of averting a meltdown. I had given up hope. I knew that crapping my pants was inevitable. Even still I inched my way to my own dorm in hopes that when the floodgates did open, my walk of shame would be as short as possible.
Somehow I made it to the first door of my dorm, pants still clean. I opened the door ever so gingerly and took feeble step after feeble step up the stairs and inside. Once in the hallway my hope was renewed. I could see the bathroom door. I was breathing heavily and literally had my hands outstretched as shuffled to the door. Another miracle, I open the bathroom door. As soon as I got into the bathroom my sphincter faltered (say that ten times fast). There was leak, but only a leak. I was so close, I could suffer this minor setback.
I punched open the bathroom stall and spun around, ripping my pants off in one motion. As soon as my belt was clear of my asshole all hell broke loose. I was not yet down on the toilet seat and already there was a steady flow of evil flying out of my backside. The seat, back of the toilet, and the entire bowl were covered in horrendous black sludge. It was a crime scene that would make a CSI investigator gag.
What followed were ten of the most relieving minutes of my life. I’m surprised I didn’t turn myself inside out. When I was finished I left the stall and snuck back into my room. I disposed of the pants I was wearing and went into a shower a floor above to clean myself. A few hours later word had spread about an epic mess in the bathroom. Luckily there were no witnesses. When a floormate showed me the mess it wasn’t hard to act innocent. Even I was genuinely disgusted by what lay in front of me. That poor, poor janitor.
I didn’t care though. I had avoided crapping my pants on the first day of school, and I had gotten away with the almost equally embarrassing mess that I had left in the bathroom. Crisis averted. Most of all though, I took to heart the lesson Heath Ledger learned the hard way a few years later: don’t be a joker when it comes to your meds.
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