Well, since Fyrchk, Sherri, and Debbie are all posting about shit, I figured I'd relate one or two shit stories of my own.
My earliest memory of shitting my pants was in playschool (aka kindergarten). I was probably about 4 at the time. Because I only lived a couple of hundred yards from the school, the carer-people refused to change me. Instead I had to waddle home with a huge dump sandwiched in my crack. I remember holding the carer-girl's hand and crying.
When I was but an infant, my mother came home to find my dad holding me under the kitchen sink, crying my eyes out while he hosed my arse clean. He didn't want to have to scrub the shit so he tried to spray it off. Yes, the kitchen sink.
I shat my pants when I was about 15, walking home from school. I was trying to squeeze out a fart, when a squelch of poogoo scared the bejesus out of me. Luckily, my powerful clench technique was able to contain the worst of it, and I managed to make it to my Granny's house for lunch without spillage. I went commando for the rest of the afternoon at school. I folded the underwear and kept them in my schoolbag until I got home that evening. I'm not sure if anyone smelt my bag that afternoon. Probably not, or I would've been slagged mercilessly. And with good reason.
When we were kids, my sisters and I were up on the lake with my Dad, and we pulled in to the shore for lunch. My sisters were probably only about 5 and 6 years old at the time. Anyway, lunch over, my sis Lorna says "Daddy, I need to poo. Where's the toilet roll?". Dad gives her the toilet roll and off she goes.
I'm not sure if you're familiar with the etiquette of outdoor shitting, but even if you're not, you'll doubtless have heard the expression "you don't shit where you eat".So Nicola, Dad and I are tucking into our sandwiches, looking out at the beautiful view across the lake, when suddenly our olfactory nerves start to spasm uncontrollably, as the vilest stench ever to assault our nasal passageways wafts towards us. The next thing I remember is Dad shouting "Ah Jaysis Christ Lorna, could you not have gone into the fecking bushes or something?".
Lorna was sitting about two feet behind us, watching us eat our picnic, while she dropped a log that was toxic enough to dissolve bone. Needless to say, we hurriedly packed up our stuff and got the fuck away from there.
I still tell that story to her new boyfriends.
Once, when I was about 19, I was sitting in my mother's kitchen having breakfast. My mother eyed me curiously as I munched on some Weetabix.
"Can you eat Weetabix now?"
"What do you mean, now?"
"Well, when you were a baby, Weetabix used to give you chronic diarrhea."
Oh. FUCK. I don't need to expand on what happened thereafter.
Student days. Out in a club called Liquid, a skanky little place that we used to go to alot when it was called Oasis. As usual on a student night out, I was incredibly drunk, so my reactions were probably slightly delayed. Whatever. Long story short, my body was wracked with peristaltic convulsions the likes of which I'd never experienced. I kept thinking, holy fuck, I'm in labour, I'm the first man to give birth to a shit-baby. Which I know is an insult to women everywhere, but I'm just trying to convey the unexpected agony that suddenly gripped me.
Now, that type of situation is bad enough when you're at home. Sober. Fifteen steps away from the toilet. Picture being totally fucking wasted, so disoriented you pass the same spot three times trying to find the toilets, and the place is so crowded that you know, you just fucking know, that you're about to take a shit right here, right now, in the middle of this fucking club. That was me that night.
I tried to maintain steady, deep breathing as I shuffled my way to the toilet. Don't forget it's a social situation, and I'm single, so I'm trying to look attractive at the same time. Which, let's face it, is just not fucking possible when your face is contorting like Jim Carrey's and you're hopping along like Charlie Chaplin. Yeah, I was smooth alright. All the bitches wanted my lad.
Finally, I made it to the (skanky, piss-infested) toilet. No queue, thank the Lord God in Heaven and his only son Jesus Christ. Dropping my drawers, I became one of those guys.
You know the guy I mean. You get to the toilet in the club, and some disgusting, horrible, diseased motherfucker has shat not only in the bowl, but on the seat as well. Sometimes there's even some on the ground.
Yes, I became that person. Despite my valiant efforts to hold everything in, a combination of my pulsating bowels, the proximity of the toilet bowl, and my extreme drunkenness conspired to outfox me at the last possible second. I drop my drawers. I hover, because there's no way I'm sitting on that piss-riddled seat. The scutter explodes with unprecedented ferocity, painting the floor, coating the side of the toilet, before eventually, laughably late, hitting the legal side of the porcelain.
I did my best to clean up, but the damage had been done. I was a total fucking wanker that night, and, although I can't take it back now, I can send out a heartfelt apology to any gentlemen who had to use the left-hand cubicle in the downstairs toilets in Liquid on that messy night so many years ago.
I'll tell you something though: what a fucking relief!