In college I sharted my undies. I did the same in second grade. Both times it was fucking disgusting, and no I don’t poop my pants on a regular basis. Sometimes shit happens. I slipped to a bathroom to assess the damage. Not a 9/11 but perhaps on par with OKC. A rather uncontrolled demolition. Great. I scrubbed them with soap and blasted half a can of Lysol. As I panicked in the bathroom my friends watched a film starring Dennis Rodman in a dorm five feet away. They had no idea I was in the midst of a mini-crisis. The almost trauma I’d just gone through. Shit smeared undies and a no budget cover-up. I lay in wait for the Anal Explosion of ’06 truthers to emerge.
Years later I shit my pants in Idaho. Didn’t know it ’til I entered North Dakota. I was driving from Oregon to just shy of Minnesota. En route I slept in the trunk of my car at a rest stop in Montana. Somewhere approaching Missoula. This being my usual routine for the dozens of times I’ve trekked the country. Hammer out a ton of driving then crash at a rest stop. Sleep in my car or atop a picnic table.
I pulled in and crawled to the trunk. Come morning the temps felt frigid but I needed to piss. In this tight space I scanned for something to relieve myself in. A urinary receptacle. I keep a Tropicana for this act but couldn’t come up with it. Instead I found a water bottle and did my best. Misplaced morning wood made a hard job harder.
As I peed the rank piss poured on me. I only emptied half my bladder before screwing the cap. I sopped piss with napkins but the damage was done. Pants and undies wet. They dried up enough and I was too tired to change them. I stepped out to spray orange ammonia on a dumpster then set off for North Dakota.
It was a long drive only made harder as I hadn’t slept well. Felt burnt out. I slapped my face and screamed to up my levels. There were many unpicturesque miles ahead. The flats of Montana are god’s worst abortion, only beaten by the miscarriage that is North Dakota.
For hundreds of miles I drove through yellow hills and trailer towns. Passed cities that stunk of feces. Places best used for nuclear testing without first warning the populace. For finding the missing link between man and a pile of pig shit. I stopped as little as possible, just trying to barrel through. Hoping the locals wouldn’t mistake my face for a cow’s asshole and fuck it. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.
After many hours I wound down at a rest stop one mile into the wretched state of North Dakota. I pissed on interstate off ramps but now needed to wring my ass empty. In a bathroom stall I realized I’d shit my pants. Not a lot but enough. I inspected the damage. Streaky crusts clung to butt. To undies now fucked. I couldn’t believe I’d greased my shorts and not known.
In tracing back when this could’ve happened I placed the event in the Idaho panhandle. An errant attempt at intestinal relief. I passed through Idaho the night before. That meant I carried shit in my pants across three states. Slept with underoos of doodoo. It was neither the first nor last time I shit myself. Just a burden I gotta carry.
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