Everyone Poops (Their Pants At Age 26)

Jack Daniel's BlackJack Cola
Yep.

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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