Everyone Poops (Their Pants At Age 26)

by D.J. Paris on April 22, 2010

I’m 33 years old, and I have never had a mosquito bite.  I know that may sound hard to believe, but it’s true.  Or, maybe if I’ve had a mosquito bite in my life, I’ve not known about it.  I’ve never seen one on my body, nor have I ever  regularly scratched at something on my skin.  I also don’t use moisturizer.  Not sure if that’s related.

While I think it’s pretty common to get a mosquito bite or two, most people have never pooped their pants.  As an adult.  But I have.

Just once, mind you.  But, once is plenty.

How did I poop my pants?  Why did I poop my pants?  And most importantly, where did I poop my pants?

The Set-Up

I’m not a good drinker.  And by that, I mean I’m an absolutely fantastic drinker.  I’ll drink more than you can and much faster.  My body loves alcohol.  But it also tends to need alcohol, like on a Thursday at noon.  So, I’m better off without it.

When I was in financial services, I had a studio apartment in the Lakeview neighborhood of Chicago.  I spent most of my days working, and my nights alone.  Oh, and I made like no money.  It was rough.

One weekend I got invited to a bachelor party pub crawl in my neighborhood.  Now, I didn’t know the bachelor at all, but I knew some of his friends.  I was just excited to have something to do.  My dance card was not full.

That day I went out to do some shopping, and on my way home I saw a sign at 7-11 that said, “Closeout Special Jack Daniel’s.”

Historically, I didn’t buy Jack Daniel’s.  It’s too expensive.  There’s other whiskey that’s pretty good but a few bucks cheaper.  But a deal’s a deal.  I walked in, and asked the clerk.  He pointed to a bunch of dusty boxes on the floor.

Oh.  This were not Jack Daniel’s – not really.  These were Jack Daniel’s BlackJack Cola Country Cocktails.  Now, I know what this really means – it’s malt liquor.  There’s no trace of whiskey in these bottles.  It’s the same crap that’s used to make hard ciders and lemonade, wine coolers, and Mad Dog 20/20.  But, a six-pack was going for $1.99, manager’s special.

Jack Daniel's BlackJack Cola

Yep.

So what if the boxes had a visible layer of dust and were not refrigerated?  Who am I, Lady Di?  (note: this was back when she was alive, so the reference is not in bad taste)   And I thought, “Well, I like the taste of cola, and I like the taste of Jack Daniels!”  This math added up.  And off I went to my apartment with twelve bottles.

I started drinking in the early afternoon.  My goal was to have 7-8 of these down before the bachelor party so I would already have a nice start to the evening and could spend less money at the bars.

The problem was I couldn’t get drunk.  These things must have a low alcohol content.  Plus, they tasted like death.  Not like coke, not like whiskey.  Like chalk, or how I think chalk would taste.  Pretty sure I finished all twelve.

As I got ready to go out for the evening, I put on my one expensive pair of pants and a nice shirt.  I took a cab over to the first bar, and went in.  I made my way to the bar and ordered a beer.  Within two minutes, it hit me.  I needed to go to the bathroom.

The Problem

I scoped out the bar’s bathroom and realized it would not do.  Not only do I generally not “make” in public bathrooms (it’s one of my core values), but I especially was not going to make in this bathroom.  There was a trough for peeing, and a toilet – no door separating.  In fact, no door at all.

“No problem,” I thought.  I had time.  My internal alarm informed me that I had a good hour or two before DEFCON 1.  I made some mental notes as I surveyed the neighborhood.  The Subway across the street looked like a good option.  After the next beer, I’ll make a move.   I went back to my drink and starting mingling.

Three Seconds Later

My stomach punched me right in the stomach.  It was unfamiliar, but understood.  I was going to release the Kraken.  Like now.  Like seriously, right now.

Instead of heading for the bathroom, I bolted out of the bar, saying goodbye to no one.  The problem was, the stupid bar across the street had about 100 people loitering outside, taking all the cabs.  I needed a cab to get home.  I literally pushed two girls out of the way and jumped in a cab.

I gave the cab driver my address and told him I was in trouble.  I couldn’t exactly tell him why because I was afraid he would kick me out.  And that would be worse.  So I just said I didn’t feel good.

Ten seconds later I pooped.  All over myself.  Right in the cab.  And I was sitting down, so I also got the added bonus of that.  Not three moments later all the windows came down in the cab.  It immediately smelled like death.  He knew.  I was in trouble.

The Plead

He started yelling at me, and I begged him not to kick me out.  I think I cried.  I promised a big tip if he got me home.  Thankfully, he did.  I threw a $20 at him on a $4 fare, and ran out of his cab.

Good thing I was wearing dark pants.

Now, I had to make a split second but critical decision.  If I sprinted through the main lobby of my apartment building, I ran the risk of someone seeing me.  Same goes for the elevator.  Those options are out.  Thankfully, there was a side door that opened from the alley into the stairwell.

I tore off down the alley and into my building, a man possessed.  I made a silent prayer  for an empty stairwell during the four flights I was about to climb.  Thankfully, the coast was clear.  So was my hallway.  There is a God.  I got to my door, undid the lock and went in.  I was safe.

The Clean-Up

I made it straight into the bathroom, and jumped into the tub, fully clothed.  I know this was going to be rough.  I had to remove my pants, and clean up.  When I had taken off my pants, well, I’ll save you the horror of what I saw.  But I threw up.  All over myself.

And so I stood in the shower, covered in mess, and in my best clothes and stone-cold sober.  And I had to laugh.  It was funny.  And the weird thing was, I felt okay.  The poison had left.  I cleaned up, and went to the couch to watch television.  It was 8:30pm.

So, what exactly happened?  I’m pretty sure those Jack Daniel’s bottles were $1.99 for a reason, and that reason had to do with me pooping my pants.  I quit drinking soon after that.  Figured it was a sign.

The only other time this sort of thing happened I was on my way to meet my wife’s parents for the first time at their cabin in Michigan.  I found a big bag of Life Savers in the car, and promptly devoured every one within twenty minutes.  My wife exclaimed, “Those are sugar-free, you know…”  No, I didn’t know.

Quick-cut to ten minutes later when I bolted from her Jeep Wrangler into the woods crying.  It was our sixth date.

There – a bonus poop story.  Plus, I’d like to point out that you’re a grown adult and you just read 1300 words about doody.  That’s pretty immature, even for you.  Go back to work.

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