Okay, so this ONE time, I shit myself...
Those that know me fairly well know the story of THE COLUMBUS CENTER INCIDENT.
Hmmm. Probably a fairer way to present that would be to say -Nearly everyone that has ever met me in a social situation wishes they did not know the story of THE COLUMBUS CENTER INCIDENT. In fact, a few of my better friends - those who hang out with me far too much, have probably heard me tell the story 12 or 15 or 230 times by now. Sally and Paul in particular would need steel wool to scrub the story out of their minds, they've been subjected to it so much. I think that I use this story as a sort of icebreaker. See, I'm not a particularly couth or tactful man, and I am known far and wide as somewhat of a vulgarian. Also I think that anything that comes out of your ass is comedy gold. The CCI (as the story has been known since.. well... now) is kind of a way to get all that out in the open right away. It's kind of me throwing down a gauntlet and saying "If you like this story, then you'll like hanging out with me. If you hate this story, then let's just part ways now."
Ironicaly, Paul HATES this story, and he's my best friend. So... so much for that theory.
It is (IMO) a pretty good story though (despite my having given away the punchline in the title above... Yes, it does involve me shitting myself!) and I figured that perhaps it was time to commit it to text; both preserving it for the ages and also preventing me from having to tell it in the company of my friends yet again. Now when I meet new people I can just direct them to my blog, and the tale can be read (or not) at their leisure.
Not would actually be my reccomendation.
At this point, I have to warn all of you who haven't noticed my tendency to ramble that this is going to go on a bit. If you have somewhere you need to be in 5 minutes, don't start reading. Okay you already started reading, but for the love of God, don't keep reading. Come back later when you have some time. And get a comfy chair.
Okay? Okay... so here we go! Allow me, before we begin, to paint for you a pair of pictures.
1) I am, at the time of this story (summer of '96), working at The Columbus Center, a marine biotech center on the Baltimore Harborfront. I'm involved in the exhibit design department of a children's science museum that the Columbus Center was getting ready to open. The museum was cool but horribly mis-managed, and it wound up failing miserably about 4 months after it was opened. I was long gone by the point that happened. Anyway, those of you that live in Baltimore may know the building. It's right on the waterfront, behind the Power Plant, and it has a huge tented canopy on one side. It kind of looks like a giant alien landing craft. Cool building. Anyway, I was working there.
2)I am wearing white pants. Remember this fact, because it will become important later on.
So it is a beautiful summer evening, and a Friday to boot. One of my co-workers has a serious jones on for Mexican food, so a few of us decide to head over to Nacho Mama's in Canton for dinner. I give Sal a call and tell her to come downtown and join us.
So now we're all at Nacho Mama's, eating burritos and tacos and nachos and crap like that, and just shooting the shit. We're all having a great time and nobody wants to leave, so we just keep ordering drinks and food and sitting around and laughing. I'm having a great time. So great, in fact that I begin to ignore the little messages from my ass saying "We are going to need to shit soon, bro."
The bathroom at Nacho Mama's is a tiny grungy affair, and on a Friday night, that joint gets pretty fucking crowded. I'm thinking to myself "Self, do you really want to make everybody get up so you can slide out of this booth and force your way through that crowd, only to wait in line while a series of drunk assholes piss all over the toilet seat?" And the voice that replies says "Naaaah. Fuck that noise. I'm sure we're going to leave soon. We'll wait."
Actually, that was one of the voices that replied. The other one was the faint cry of my ass, saying "Dude, wait if you want to, but I'm not going to be held responsible for what happens."
I have since learned to listen to the voice of my ass, and to heed it well, for my ass is wise beyond its years (and surprisingly muscular too). But on that particular night do I listen to the veritable Yoda in my heiney? No sir, I do not.
So there I sit, with something like a dozen tacos all making a beeline for the back door of my colon, and I'm still thinking "We're going to leave any second." I continue thinking that for another two hours. Yes, I certainly could have bitten the bullet and gotten up and used the scary bathroom. Yes, I also could have simply gathered Sally and said good night. All I can say is that I am a dumbass and I did neither of those things. It's not like the bathroom at Nacho Mama's is a Turkish prison either. I'm just a huge shit-wimp.
So finally the dinner ends, and everyone gets up to leave and by now my ass has abandoned gentle pleading and gone right into frantic screaming and banging his head against the wall: "Look bro, I'm doing the best I can down here, but I'm only so strong and this is a mexi-shit, know what I mean? It is spicy and it is liquid. Let's get a move on here!!!" And Mr. Shit-wimp here? Still not listening. Told you I was a dumbass. At this point my ass is quivering in the exact same manner that Olympic weightlifters do when they're holding 7 million pounds in the air.
Our goodbyes having been said, Sal and I get into her beat-up Toyota Tercel and I look lovingly into her eyes from the passenger seat, and whisper "That was a lot of fun and I love you and I need to get to a toilet right fucking now."
One of the many reasons that I love Sally with all my heart is that she is a trooper. I mean some girls you can say that shit to and they'll just wrinkle up their nose and give you that "you're disgusting" look. Not my Sal, though. She's got just enough little boy in her that when you say "I need a toilet right fucking now," she dons her game face and puts the pedal to the metal. And so there we are, weaving in and out of traffic... She's doing her best speed racer impression and I'm holding my trembling ass up off the car seat because I know if it touches vinyl it will explode. At this point my ass is like nitroglycerine. Do not shake it, do not tap it, do not roll it down the stairs. Do not disturb the shitroglycerine, or you will surely be picking chunks of semi-digested taco out of your hair.
Sally, god bless her, totally gets this, so she's avoiding the potholes as we bolt back to my office at the Columbus Center, which we've determined is the nearest restroom that I can unload this fecal A-bomb in. It's after hours, it's deserted... And it's only a few blocks away. Of course, those few blocks are starting to feel like 50 miles and I've got my fingers dug 5 inches into the armrest and my legs are starting to cramp from holding myself off the seat and I can hear this pounding from below like the mongol hourdes have just arrived at the gates and they want out, motherfucker, like now!!!
Sal brings the car to a screaming halt at the closest available parking spot and as I pull myself out of the car, taking oh-so-much care not to jostle the shitroglycerine, I realize that we are all the way on the opposite side of the building from the entrance. Now Sally, myself, and my ticking A-bomb begin the death march around the perimeter of the Columbus Center.
It's not a small building. It's not the Pentagon, but when you've got 35 metric tons of fecal matter leaning on a trap door made of balsa wood, it's fucking-A big enough. And this, my dear patient blog-readers, is where the waves begin.
You know the waves. Anyone who has ever held back a shit knows the waves. First that urgent need to vacate your bowels recedes and you think "I just may make this after all!" So you- well, you can't run (you've still got the 35 metric tons of feces), but you can sure as hell waddle fast. You get about 15 feet when the wave comes back in, and it's like Mama Cass herself is in there, leaning on that mountain of shit poking out your back door. You stop the waddle entirely. You grip the side of the building. Sally gets that look in her eyes that says "Holy shit, he's gonna blow!" You dig into the side of that building and now it's your sphincter vs. Mama Cass and the entire 1985 Bears defensive line in a battle for the future of your pants.
Let me tell you, at this point, I am putting so much effort into not shitting that I'm not even breathing. I can't think about anything other than not please god not shitting my pants. I don't know who I am. I don't know where I am. I don't know who this cringing lady I'm with is. All I know is that I am the dam and I have Niagra inside of me.
And the the wave passes. And I almost collapse on the concrete right there. But no, miles to go and all that... 15 more feet. Another wave. 15 more feet. Another wave. Each time I am sure this is the one where I lose it. Each time I squeak by unsoiled. The front door to the Columbus Center is getting closer and closer. Al... (wave) most... (wave) there...
And I'm in the lobby! And there is a pen in my hand and I'm signing in and showing my ID and trying to appear to the guard like a normal guy and not like 300 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag.
From the front desk is an arching stairway that swings up around a corner and right at the top of those stairs is a bathroom. A nice, clean, after-hours-abandoned bathroom. Salvation is something like 20 yards away. I'm going to make it. I look at Sally and smile. A kind of sweaty, strained smile, but a smile nonetheless. I'm letting her know it's going to be okay. We start up the stair case. I'm holding her hand as we go up and around the corner. I can see the bathroom door now. Thank you sweet Jesus. I start to tell her to wait in my office and I'll come get her in a few minutes -
And right at that moment, my friends, right there halfway up the stairs, just around the corner from the front desk and 10 feet from the bathroom door, my ass just fucking gives up the fight.
It's not that I took a shit there on the steps. It's more that I suddenly realized that I was already shitting. My poor tired sphincter, who (let's be honest) had already gone way way way beyond the call of duty, was out for the count and there was shit just pouring out of me.
I want to make a couple of things clear:
First, I was trying not to shit. Just because my ass gave up didn't mean I had. My brain was sending all the signals - "Oh my god stop holy shit stop please for the love of all that's holy stop shitting!!!" It's just that there was no juice left in the engine, if you know what I mean.
Second, I don't know if she heard it, or smelled it or just sensed it, but Sal immediately knew what was happening. I can vividly recall the way her eyes widened and I knew what she was thinking. She was thinking "Oh my god he's actually shitting himself," and "I'm going to marry this clown???"
Third, You need to know that in the boxers vs. briefs debate, I come down firmly on the side of briefs. And the fact that I was wearing briefs was the only reason I wasn't painting my shoes brown. Or the steps for that matter. Behold the power of elastic bands.
So after what feels like a half hour of standing there shitting, the tap kind of turns off for a second, and I can move again. I whimper "Wait in my office," to Sal and bolt for the bathroom door.
The bottom line, once I was finished doing my business in there?
The pants (the white pants)? A mess, but salvagable. I washed them out in the sink and put them back on. Luckily I was wearing a button-down over a T-shirt, so I was able to remove the button-down and tie it around my waist, covering up most of the stain.
The underpants? Despite having given their all and saving the stairway from a paint job, they were a total wash. I rinsed them out as best I could and actually threw them in the trash.
The toilet was a mess. I was a mess. The cleanup was ungodly. But I'll spare you any more description. Suffice it to say that I learned a valuable lesson that day, my friends. Actually I learned two:
1) If you have a woman in your life that loves you even after seeing you transform into a crap-volcano, keep that woman at all costs. That's a diamond in the rough. Make no mistake.
2) If your ass tells you that you ain't gonna make it? For fuck's sake listen to it.
Next time - something much shorter and no shitting, I promise.
Those that know me fairly well know the story of THE COLUMBUS CENTER INCIDENT.
Hmmm. Probably a fairer way to present that would be to say -Nearly everyone that has ever met me in a social situation wishes they did not know the story of THE COLUMBUS CENTER INCIDENT. In fact, a few of my better friends - those who hang out with me far too much, have probably heard me tell the story 12 or 15 or 230 times by now. Sally and Paul in particular would need steel wool to scrub the story out of their minds, they've been subjected to it so much. I think that I use this story as a sort of icebreaker. See, I'm not a particularly couth or tactful man, and I am known far and wide as somewhat of a vulgarian. Also I think that anything that comes out of your ass is comedy gold. The CCI (as the story has been known since.. well... now) is kind of a way to get all that out in the open right away. It's kind of me throwing down a gauntlet and saying "If you like this story, then you'll like hanging out with me. If you hate this story, then let's just part ways now."
Ironicaly, Paul HATES this story, and he's my best friend. So... so much for that theory.
It is (IMO) a pretty good story though (despite my having given away the punchline in the title above... Yes, it does involve me shitting myself!) and I figured that perhaps it was time to commit it to text; both preserving it for the ages and also preventing me from having to tell it in the company of my friends yet again. Now when I meet new people I can just direct them to my blog, and the tale can be read (or not) at their leisure.
Not would actually be my reccomendation.
At this point, I have to warn all of you who haven't noticed my tendency to ramble that this is going to go on a bit. If you have somewhere you need to be in 5 minutes, don't start reading. Okay you already started reading, but for the love of God, don't keep reading. Come back later when you have some time. And get a comfy chair.
Okay? Okay... so here we go! Allow me, before we begin, to paint for you a pair of pictures.
1) I am, at the time of this story (summer of '96), working at The Columbus Center, a marine biotech center on the Baltimore Harborfront. I'm involved in the exhibit design department of a children's science museum that the Columbus Center was getting ready to open. The museum was cool but horribly mis-managed, and it wound up failing miserably about 4 months after it was opened. I was long gone by the point that happened. Anyway, those of you that live in Baltimore may know the building. It's right on the waterfront, behind the Power Plant, and it has a huge tented canopy on one side. It kind of looks like a giant alien landing craft. Cool building. Anyway, I was working there.
2)I am wearing white pants. Remember this fact, because it will become important later on.
So it is a beautiful summer evening, and a Friday to boot. One of my co-workers has a serious jones on for Mexican food, so a few of us decide to head over to Nacho Mama's in Canton for dinner. I give Sal a call and tell her to come downtown and join us.
So now we're all at Nacho Mama's, eating burritos and tacos and nachos and crap like that, and just shooting the shit. We're all having a great time and nobody wants to leave, so we just keep ordering drinks and food and sitting around and laughing. I'm having a great time. So great, in fact that I begin to ignore the little messages from my ass saying "We are going to need to shit soon, bro."
The bathroom at Nacho Mama's is a tiny grungy affair, and on a Friday night, that joint gets pretty fucking crowded. I'm thinking to myself "Self, do you really want to make everybody get up so you can slide out of this booth and force your way through that crowd, only to wait in line while a series of drunk assholes piss all over the toilet seat?" And the voice that replies says "Naaaah. Fuck that noise. I'm sure we're going to leave soon. We'll wait."
Actually, that was one of the voices that replied. The other one was the faint cry of my ass, saying "Dude, wait if you want to, but I'm not going to be held responsible for what happens."
I have since learned to listen to the voice of my ass, and to heed it well, for my ass is wise beyond its years (and surprisingly muscular too). But on that particular night do I listen to the veritable Yoda in my heiney? No sir, I do not.
So there I sit, with something like a dozen tacos all making a beeline for the back door of my colon, and I'm still thinking "We're going to leave any second." I continue thinking that for another two hours. Yes, I certainly could have bitten the bullet and gotten up and used the scary bathroom. Yes, I also could have simply gathered Sally and said good night. All I can say is that I am a dumbass and I did neither of those things. It's not like the bathroom at Nacho Mama's is a Turkish prison either. I'm just a huge shit-wimp.
So finally the dinner ends, and everyone gets up to leave and by now my ass has abandoned gentle pleading and gone right into frantic screaming and banging his head against the wall: "Look bro, I'm doing the best I can down here, but I'm only so strong and this is a mexi-shit, know what I mean? It is spicy and it is liquid. Let's get a move on here!!!" And Mr. Shit-wimp here? Still not listening. Told you I was a dumbass. At this point my ass is quivering in the exact same manner that Olympic weightlifters do when they're holding 7 million pounds in the air.
Our goodbyes having been said, Sal and I get into her beat-up Toyota Tercel and I look lovingly into her eyes from the passenger seat, and whisper "That was a lot of fun and I love you and I need to get to a toilet right fucking now."
One of the many reasons that I love Sally with all my heart is that she is a trooper. I mean some girls you can say that shit to and they'll just wrinkle up their nose and give you that "you're disgusting" look. Not my Sal, though. She's got just enough little boy in her that when you say "I need a toilet right fucking now," she dons her game face and puts the pedal to the metal. And so there we are, weaving in and out of traffic... She's doing her best speed racer impression and I'm holding my trembling ass up off the car seat because I know if it touches vinyl it will explode. At this point my ass is like nitroglycerine. Do not shake it, do not tap it, do not roll it down the stairs. Do not disturb the shitroglycerine, or you will surely be picking chunks of semi-digested taco out of your hair.
Sally, god bless her, totally gets this, so she's avoiding the potholes as we bolt back to my office at the Columbus Center, which we've determined is the nearest restroom that I can unload this fecal A-bomb in. It's after hours, it's deserted... And it's only a few blocks away. Of course, those few blocks are starting to feel like 50 miles and I've got my fingers dug 5 inches into the armrest and my legs are starting to cramp from holding myself off the seat and I can hear this pounding from below like the mongol hourdes have just arrived at the gates and they want out, motherfucker, like now!!!
Sal brings the car to a screaming halt at the closest available parking spot and as I pull myself out of the car, taking oh-so-much care not to jostle the shitroglycerine, I realize that we are all the way on the opposite side of the building from the entrance. Now Sally, myself, and my ticking A-bomb begin the death march around the perimeter of the Columbus Center.
It's not a small building. It's not the Pentagon, but when you've got 35 metric tons of fecal matter leaning on a trap door made of balsa wood, it's fucking-A big enough. And this, my dear patient blog-readers, is where the waves begin.
You know the waves. Anyone who has ever held back a shit knows the waves. First that urgent need to vacate your bowels recedes and you think "I just may make this after all!" So you- well, you can't run (you've still got the 35 metric tons of feces), but you can sure as hell waddle fast. You get about 15 feet when the wave comes back in, and it's like Mama Cass herself is in there, leaning on that mountain of shit poking out your back door. You stop the waddle entirely. You grip the side of the building. Sally gets that look in her eyes that says "Holy shit, he's gonna blow!" You dig into the side of that building and now it's your sphincter vs. Mama Cass and the entire 1985 Bears defensive line in a battle for the future of your pants.
Let me tell you, at this point, I am putting so much effort into not shitting that I'm not even breathing. I can't think about anything other than not please god not shitting my pants. I don't know who I am. I don't know where I am. I don't know who this cringing lady I'm with is. All I know is that I am the dam and I have Niagra inside of me.
And the the wave passes. And I almost collapse on the concrete right there. But no, miles to go and all that... 15 more feet. Another wave. 15 more feet. Another wave. Each time I am sure this is the one where I lose it. Each time I squeak by unsoiled. The front door to the Columbus Center is getting closer and closer. Al... (wave) most... (wave) there...
And I'm in the lobby! And there is a pen in my hand and I'm signing in and showing my ID and trying to appear to the guard like a normal guy and not like 300 pounds of shit in a 5 pound bag.
From the front desk is an arching stairway that swings up around a corner and right at the top of those stairs is a bathroom. A nice, clean, after-hours-abandoned bathroom. Salvation is something like 20 yards away. I'm going to make it. I look at Sally and smile. A kind of sweaty, strained smile, but a smile nonetheless. I'm letting her know it's going to be okay. We start up the stair case. I'm holding her hand as we go up and around the corner. I can see the bathroom door now. Thank you sweet Jesus. I start to tell her to wait in my office and I'll come get her in a few minutes -
And right at that moment, my friends, right there halfway up the stairs, just around the corner from the front desk and 10 feet from the bathroom door, my ass just fucking gives up the fight.
It's not that I took a shit there on the steps. It's more that I suddenly realized that I was already shitting. My poor tired sphincter, who (let's be honest) had already gone way way way beyond the call of duty, was out for the count and there was shit just pouring out of me.
I want to make a couple of things clear:
First, I was trying not to shit. Just because my ass gave up didn't mean I had. My brain was sending all the signals - "Oh my god stop holy shit stop please for the love of all that's holy stop shitting!!!" It's just that there was no juice left in the engine, if you know what I mean.
Second, I don't know if she heard it, or smelled it or just sensed it, but Sal immediately knew what was happening. I can vividly recall the way her eyes widened and I knew what she was thinking. She was thinking "Oh my god he's actually shitting himself," and "I'm going to marry this clown???"
Third, You need to know that in the boxers vs. briefs debate, I come down firmly on the side of briefs. And the fact that I was wearing briefs was the only reason I wasn't painting my shoes brown. Or the steps for that matter. Behold the power of elastic bands.
So after what feels like a half hour of standing there shitting, the tap kind of turns off for a second, and I can move again. I whimper "Wait in my office," to Sal and bolt for the bathroom door.
The bottom line, once I was finished doing my business in there?
The pants (the white pants)? A mess, but salvagable. I washed them out in the sink and put them back on. Luckily I was wearing a button-down over a T-shirt, so I was able to remove the button-down and tie it around my waist, covering up most of the stain.
The underpants? Despite having given their all and saving the stairway from a paint job, they were a total wash. I rinsed them out as best I could and actually threw them in the trash.
The toilet was a mess. I was a mess. The cleanup was ungodly. But I'll spare you any more description. Suffice it to say that I learned a valuable lesson that day, my friends. Actually I learned two:
1) If you have a woman in your life that loves you even after seeing you transform into a crap-volcano, keep that woman at all costs. That's a diamond in the rough. Make no mistake.
2) If your ass tells you that you ain't gonna make it? For fuck's sake listen to it.
Next time - something much shorter and no shitting, I promise.
posted by CommonWombat at 12:25 AM
11 Comments:
Maybe you jiggled it?
xxoo
O
Bake, At first I wished you could have been a fly on the wall when I read this because I was laughing so hard ... then Eli read it and now I wish you could have been a fly on the wall as *he* read it!
Love, Momma DB
With absolutely nothing to do at work today this was a great way to fill up a few minutes and get a good laugh at the same time. Awesome.
Great woman you got there...
Hys-damn-sterical.
If you thought READING it was funny, you should try LIVING it. That was a riot. :)
That was, without doubt, the most touching, beatiful story I have ever read. It brought tears to my eyes. I can only hope someday it gets made into a major motion picture, so I can buy it on DVD and watch it again and again. And weep.
Ben Affleck can play you. And Sean Penn can play your shit.
I firmly believe there is an inherent humor in "I shit myself" stories. Anyone who has gone thru shitting themselves can totally relate.
I've got a touch of IBS, and I have to heed my 20 minute window. 20 minutes after I start eating, I will need to find a crapper. Toute-suite!
See, that was me once, only with a stomach bug and Italian food, only I *did* crap in the car. Nothing says love quite so much as your loved one finding something absorbent to jam under your shitty ass to save the upholstery.
Viva la shitroglycerine!
Okay, I had to search for Shit on myself after what happened to me today. Glad to know I am not the only one. At least I can say, hey there is this guy on the interweb who did the same. And trust me I know how you feel when you finally relize you are infact shitting in your pants. That feeling is funny after the fact not while it is happening. I was 2 fuckin feet away from the stall. As I was shutting the stall door, I then relized oh oh..not good. 2 FUCKIN FEET.
CommonWombat - I want to thank you. I too shit myself today. As the poster above said, after the experience I had to google "I shit myself" just so I could get over the feeling of "am I the only jerk that has ever had this happen to him" - which is usually how I feel after I do something stupid. I thank you the most for the "waves" description. My ass started yelling at me (and yes, I wish I had listened then) a mile from home out in the woods walking my dog. Why didn't I just take care of business behind a tree? Trust me, that's what my ass was telling me was the right thing to do. The first wave hit as I made it to my car. The second as I staggered up the stairs to my house. As I ran into the bathroom, my ass, as you described, simply gave up the fight. I was gratefully alone - but I've been married to one of those "diamond in the rough" girls you also so well described for 18 years - so I'll most assuradely share the story (and yours) with her when she comes home. Thanks again.
I seem to be shitting myself more and more regulary. My ass keeps tricking me into beleiving its a fart. Then before you know it ur ass has spattered ur boxers with dioreah
I need to muster up all my courage if I were to say the same thing to my girl. The experience must have been heavenly by the time you got in the toilet.
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