Have I told you the story about the time I shitted on myself?

Like many other kids, I had a bit of trouble with pissing in bed. If you’re a facebook friend, you probably knew this already. I openly admit it. I pissed in the bed occasionally until I was 6 years old and broke the habit for good. But I’ve shitted on myself twice. Here’s the story.

When I was young, probably in the 1st grade, a teacher (teacher is an overstatement. She was a stressed out underpaid, glorified babysitter) decided to scream at the class that she was tired of kids asking to use the restroom every 5 minutes. Because I was quite impressionable and easily shook at that age, I was afraid to ask permission when I felt that sudden rumble in my stomach on that day. Elementary school is very much a thing of the past. If you ask me, its high school that truly fucks us all up. But you couldn’t have told me then at age 6 that this incident wouldn’t be the most traumatic moment of my life. I don’t remember the teacher’s name and I barely remember a handful of classmates faces, but I remember the moment.

I looked at the clock for at least 10 minutes, counting the seconds that I clenched my bowel muscles tighter. I am still very sure of the time that day. In those days, the school day ended at 2:30 and it was nearly time for the day to end. I counted each minute by the tick of the clock, hoping that the dial would somehow speed up before I let loose. I could have easily asked to go to the restroom, but with 30 minutes of school left, I couldn’t deal with any nagging or yelling or harassment from the teacher, especially after her tirade about the importance of being potty trained before starting school. Instead of asking her to go shit, I just sat there and clenched the muscles in my stomach as hard as I could, as I let go a few prefarts here and there. The farts started dry and hot, but each fart became wetter and wetter until finally, I couldn’t hold it anymore. Unlike the days when I pissed in the bed, there was no relief, no feeling of satisfaction, when I let it go. I felt the wet diarrhea caused shit shoot from my ass like a canonball and drip down the left leg of my pants (I guess my dick aims right and my asshole goes left). I repositioned, to loosen the stickiness of the underwear on my buttcheeks and I could feel more loose stool dripping. I looked down to see the top of my white Payless store ProWings, now stained with shit sauce. I looked around the table at my classmates, praying they didn’t see what I just saw. But the smell was too much to ignore. With only 10 minutes to go before school ended, one of my classmates blew the whistle on my clandestione activity. Somebody (or maybe they said something) stinks they shouted. It didn’t take long before all eyes were on me and the class knew I’d made a mess. As the kids lined up to file out the door, I made my way to the restroom to wipe the shit from the inseams of my pants, flush my shame, and try to reason a coping method to deal with the embarrassment that I was sure to endure when I returned to school the next day.

I didn’t shit on myself again until I was in high school. I’ll be the first to admit that shitting on yourself in high school is more traumatizing than shitting on yourself in elemetary school. But lucky for me, I wasn’t technically at school this time.

In Tulsa, there is a late night establishment called The Village Inn. Its a mainstay and must visit for the late night crowd (especially when IHOP is crowded or too far to drive to. We have Denny’s too, but there is a love/ hate thing there (the Denny’s in Tulsa are known to be a part of their collective, Klan friendly branches. I say this half jokingly. Also Tulsa’s Waffle Houses suck in comparison to the ones in the southeast, so don’t ever dare). My second shit incident was my fault and I am sure The Village Inn was the cause. Okay how can it be my fault if they caused it? For the first time in my life (and probably the last time ever) I decided to voice my opinion about the food that I ordered. I honestly have no idea what I said, but I remember it must have been rude and out of character for my 13 year old self, because my mother immediately apologized to the waitress on my behalf. Though she accepted my mother’s apology, the war was on, and I’d cast the first pellet. I should have known something was wrong, when my cola came to the table a bit lighter in color than the rest of my fams. But it just tasted like flat soda, so I didn’t really think twice. At least until I felt the stomach rumblings. As soon as I left the parking lot, my stomach began to boil like a witches cauldron. Surely, I was poisoned by the witchy waitress. As we crept along Sheridan Road, I begged my mom to step on it, so I could get to the bathroom before it was too late. Just when it looked I would make it, just when my ass and stomach finally found an equilibrium, the sound of a freight engine was heard in the distance, and the guards began to lower over the train tracks. We were less than 2 blocks from home, but the train took an eternity to pass. When the guards were lifted, allowing us to cross, it was too late. The small farts turned to liquid. I imagine there is a test tube sized pocket in your anus. Mine was filled with shit and brimming over. I begged my mom to run through lights nd any stop signs remaining. When my mom parked, I jumped out and ran to the front door faster than Carl Lewis in 1992. When I fumbled the key in the lock, I felt a sudden sharp pain hit my spine. I knew that mistake would cost me. I felt like the rape victim who can’t manage to put the key in lock as her predator nears her car door. But I wouldn’t give up without a fight. I ran to restroom with my hands on each clenched ass cheek, hoping to force my ass to stay shut. I was almost there, home free!, but before I could twist the bathroom door open, I felt the pocket of shit I was holding in my anus pop, and once again, shit fell down the legs of my khakis. I pulled them off and I literally jumped to the toilet seat. As I pushed bits and pieces of undigested food from my ass, my family, my mom included, opened the bathroom door, giggling at how funny it was that I shitted on myself.

There you have it. The stories of when I shitted on myself. I am sure it will happen again someday. Hopefully that day won’t be soon. Hopefully that will occur when I’m nearly dead and bowel control is considered a luxury. If I learned anything from these two experiences, its simply know when to speak up and know when to shut the fuck up. The wrong decision can lead you up shits creek.

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