Oops, I Crapped My Pants.
(The following is an account of worst case scenario of one of my friends, Kevin Dick-- written by Kevin Dick)
So it's lunch time, and I have eaten my tofu curry from My Thai, and I am cleaning out the bowl I use when I felt the need to float an air biscuit. Normally I can be discreet about it, and this was no exception. I could ease this one out and there would be no noise. Open bay door one. Prepare to fire. There it goes, and...
Oh God.
No. Did I... Oh Dear Lord in Heaven.
Kevin Adams eat your heart out. I shit my pants. No. Can't be. Oh yeah.
That's liquid alright. What do I do? I can't believe this! There was no warning! Usually there's a gurgling or the tympani sound of your bowls dropping three floors. Nothing! I haven't crapped my pants since I was three (okay, maybe six) and I fucking crapped my pants at work!
Immediately I bee-lined to the door. Hello colleague! Top-O' the Mornin' to ya'. Don't mind that smell, it's just shit! Quickly to the bathroom.
Quickly now. One foot in front of the other. How could I crap myself?
My two-and-a-half year old nephew has better continence than this. "Mommy, mommy, look! The pony poo poo'd and pee pee'd." So did your uncle, 27 years your senior. I'm not a big boy. I don't get a star for using the potty. I fucking soiled my underroos!
A free stall! Yes! I drop my pants. Oh boy. Houston, we have a problem. The brown menace in my boxers had infiltrated the blue jean border. I remember Michael remarking at Christmas about how he can't wear boxers, but I'm sure this was not one of his reasons, and now I had defiled the $80 jeans he bought me. I needed a plan.
I start the clean up process of the Superfund site in my pants. There is no imaginable maxi-pad like protective barrier that could have prevented this. A bed sheet maybe. What did I eat? Motor oil? Seven cartons of Wow potato chips? I run through the list. Banana, apple crisp (oats! there's fiber in that!), tofu broccoli, chili, saag paneer...sweet potato puree.
Yep, these could combine like an deranged superhero of feces to create the unholy pudding that inhabited my dungarees.
Of course, I work on the 2nd floor, which has the public bathroom that everyone uses. Two people enter the bathroom. It is after lunch. One enters the stall next to me and drops trough. The other, a fly-by shitter, fakes a piss in the urinal and immediately exits to search for another location. It smells like holy hell in my stall. The man next to me proceeds to get stage fright and decides to play the waiting game. Oh no, buddy. You are not winning this game of chicken. I am staying right here until you leave, so I had better here some plop plop or it is going to be a long rest of the day. He folds and does the fake wipe, flush, hand wash without soap. Off to more solitary environs.
I figure I have about fifteen seconds before the next wave of customers to get my boxers off and pants back on. Imagine this - you walk into the bathroom and someone in the stall appears to have one leg out of their pants. Would you report it to security?
I get my boxers off and jeans back on, clean up, use two rolls of toilet paper, flush, throw my boxers in the trash and bury them in an avalanche of paper towels. Sorry cleaning person. I am now commando. I wash my hands. I wash my hands again. The unmistakable, evil smell of human excrement wafts up at me from the stain on my jeans and I realize that should anyone get within two feet of me they will know that I have defiled myself.
About two blocks away is the State St. shopping district, and it is in this direction I now make haste toward. I pass a few homeless men and I think "Now I know; I know my friend, the shitting of the pants." I laugh at myself uncontrollably and pretend to be on my cell phone to avoid looking like a lunatic. How could this happen? Thankfully the Chicago wind masks my smell.
I enter Urban Outfitters. Quickly to the jeans department. Great! A sale!
I search for my size. "Can I help you sir?" "No thanks, please don't
get too close." I find my size, I think. I've never bought Urban
Outfitters jeans. Should I try them on? Then I remember "I'm not
wearing any fucking
underwear!". "Excuse me, Ma'am. Do you sell boxer shorts? I shit myself
and need to replace mine as I have thrown them away and am currently
nude under my jeans". "No, but you can order them online." Aaargh! I
need them NOW! I am not wearing any! I grab a pair of socks, just in
case someone suspects my poo pants issue. No, I'm not buying new jeans
because I stained mine with shit. I have socks too - see?
I get in line. The person behind me is close and starts rummaging through impulse items. Oh no, missy. You will want to back away real quick-like if you know what's good for you. The cashier calls me up. I can't make eye contact. Yes, receipt in the bag, fine, just give me the goddam bag.
Back at the building where I work I find a bathroom where I usually go for privacy. There is a guy in one stall. Now I play the fly-by shitter. Boy, this fake pee is sure taking a long time. Finally he leaves. I proceed to get naked from the waste down in the stall of an office building. Any dignity I still had, now gone. I change my jeans and stuff the nasty ones in the bag with the socks. Sorry socks.
Back to the office I add deodorant liberally and use a double dollop of lavender hand cream to mask any remaining poo-ness. I proceed to sit for the rest of the afternoon and day dream about a shower. Or maybe a sandblaster.