I write this as a way of coping and for others who may be going or have gone through the same thing. Plus it's hell of funny. And if you hold it against me, you're going to hell.
It was a hot August day. Actually that's not where the story begins. It begins the night before when I was drinking 12-23 heineys on a cool August night. I had to help my parents move in the morning, and I knew that the next day was going to be a bitch. At that point the only thing I knew for certain was that I was going to be hung-over.
I showed up at my parent's house to help them move. They had twenty years of stuff to pack into a moving truck, and it was about 365 degrees outside. I was dehydrated and sweating. Not a good combination. As the truck was filled, I had probably lost around 10-25 pounds.
As we got to their new place we began unpacking. We were all very hungry but all we had to eat was some spicy chicken sandwiches. I ate two of them, because I wanted to get extra fat that evening.
I finished helping them organize the garage, and move in the big items, and then I departed. I was still very dehydrated, and exhausted. I had a 40 mile drive ahead of me, and I just wanted to GET THERE. Where was there you might ask? My bed.... my comfortable extra large extra comfortable solace.
I had a new car that day. A car that I wasn't quite yet familiar with. I knew where the gas pedal the brake was, but that's about it. About 5 miles into my drive I felt the combination of exhaustion, dehydration, and smoking cigarettes all day kick in. Or maybe it was the chicken sandwiches, something kicked in that night.
6 miles into the trek, I knew what was doing the kicking. I had to take a dump. And we're not just talking rabbit pebbles either. A dump that would rival the largest feces of all time, either ape or gorilla. I had to drop all the episodes of the Cosby show off at the rental store.
Most days, I would have just pulled over and dropped trow. Simple as that. But on this day, because of my impeccable bowel control, I decided that I was just going to "MAKE IT." Because I'm a man, and men don't pull over. Men get there. We only brake for gasoline, and I had a full tank.
So I clenched up tight, and continued my drive. I got closer to the outer limits of
A light went off in my head: "Why don't you take the shortcut home?" Of course, the short cut. I had recently discovered this under-traveled gateway toward home. When the exit for the shortcut came up, I diverted from the direct route, and entered a sublime one.
As soon as I got on the shortcut I was reminded by my stomach that he had to fill 1,000 orders of double double fudge. I was feeling the pressure. I was tired from all the clenching. I had been holding in a trans-Atlantic mudslide for 40 miles and the tension had built up. Something was going to give soon.
A mile and several hundred feet away from my house, something happened that made me question my decision to just "Make it." The longest train in the history of trains, made me come to a complete dead halt. And I was sitting there counting the cars creep by .... "1,009....1,010....1,011..." I almost lost everything.
I don't know how I made it through that train stop. I prayed to any deity who would listen. I hummed quietly to myself. I bit my lower lip. I was screaming at myself "Don't shit your pants! Don't shit them Jason! We're almost home." And with that little bit of encouragement, and with the passing of the train, I was on my way once more.
I did mach 18 down the streets of my neighborhood. And I saw my house. I pulled up the driveway. And I reached for the handle. A handle that, because it was dark, and because I was under so much pressure, and because it was a new car I was unfamiliar with, I couldn't find.
"WHERE IS THE HANDLE?" I screamed. I couldn't find it. And it was time; I had a second to decide my fate. I grabbed everything, in everyplace that I could think of, but nothing would open that damn new car door. I was starting to cry. I knew that by not finding the handle I was never going to get out of the car. And I knew that.... something was about to happen.
AND THEN...
There's a moment that you get right before you shit your pants. It's a moment of peace and reflection. It's a moment where all the pressure is lifted. It's a nice moment, one that doesn't last for very long. You give in, you have to, and you can no longer resist temptation like this. Then you proceed to do the unthinkable. You shit yourself.
It starts. I had been holding it in for so long. What was once a mole-hill is now a mountain range. I'm shitting, and shitting, and shitting, and shitting. I'm crying, I'm mortified. I'm shocked. I'm scared. I'm afraid of what they're going to think of me. I'm afraid of what's going to be the fate of my favorite pair of pants. What's going to happen to my car seat? Does my insurance cover this? At the same time, I'm feeling GREAT. I'm smiling, and it feels good. If I were not sitting in my car, but sitting on my toilet, this would be the best shit ever!
It creeps down my leg; I feel it in my socks. I never had a contention plan for this. I didn't know what to do next. I took a minute to just sit in my shit and contemplate.
You'd be amazed what two showers, two loads of laundry, and a garden hose can clean. You'd be amazed at how quickly you can make yourself normal again. You'd be amazed at what you can do, when you have to do it quickly, so that nobody ever finds out.
I lived through this experience, and so can you. You can shit your pants, and like it. You can do it. I know you can.
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