Since my recent cruel and unusual treatment at the hands of my unforgiving boss at work vis à vis my toilet habits in the workplace (a sordid episode which I reported in full here previously), I have spent no small amount of time meditating on what possible transgression I may have committed to warrant such inhuman treatment. I have spent many a sleepless night mentally reviewing every notable shit that I have ever taken to try and divine some meaning that could explain the current parlous state of my shitting habits at work.

I have discretely sought counseling to try and resolve this sorry state of affairs. Through this, my therapist has uncovered a shitting episode previously buried deeply within my subconscious. This shameful memory, skillfully recovered by my therapist, is undoubtedly the source of my current torment at work. It is an unambiguous case of crap karmaâ in which the sins of my past have come back to haunt me. My therapist insists that the only way to restore my well-being is to publicly acknowledge my previous shit subterfuge and seek atonement. Please understand that this a particularly painful process for me, especially in light of the sterling support offered by PoopReport readers in response to my previous post. Therefore it is with a very heavy heart that I offer this tale not as entertainment or information, but for absolution.

I currently play on a hockey team. This is the British version, played on grass, but can often be as brutal as the ice-based game as practiced in North America. Ten years ago I was playing an away fixture with my ever-present chums. Nothing of note occurred, and we secured a 2-1 victory in a hard fought but sporting match. Après game we got changed and joined our vanquished opponents in some cucumber sandwiches and several welcome pints of dizzy water. It fell to me to give our center forward "Kipper" Wiggins a lift home. I then returned home myself to discover that Wiggins had left his kit bag in the boot of my car.

I did not relish the thought of leaving his sweaty kit to fester in my car for a week until I next saw him. I magnanimously decided that I would launder his kit for him along with my own -- or, more precisely, I entrusted the then current Mrs. Epitaph to perform this task. I entered the house and handed both mine and Wiggins' kit bag to the screeching harridan who fulfilled the role of my paramour with a cheery, "get that lot washed, there's a good girl." I then wondered off to my study to examine my collection of spores and fungi.

Moments later the peace was shattered by the unearthly screams of the then current Mrs. Epitaph. I rushed to her aid, anticipating a violent confrontation with a heavily armed intruder (or more likely a small spider, based on previous experience). I entered the kitchen to find her curled in the corner, whimpering pathetically. She wordlessly pointed to the other end of the kitchen. I followed her gaze and immediately recoiled in horror. In the process of removing Wiggins' kit from the bag, his match underpants had inadvertently fallen to the floor. YE GODS! Wiggins had shat himself during the game by all appearances!

Either that or his kecks had ridden a considerable distance up his cleft, their progress doubtless aided by the sweaty disposition of his arse. In any event, his underpants now looked like the starting grid of the Indy 500, streaked as they were with heavy striations of poo. These Hershey bars had mingled with sweat, or possibly a few dewdrops of wee inadvertently released during Wiggins' exertions, to produce a strange patina in the seat. The shit bacteria were visibly oscillating, relishing their new home, giving the whole episode an other-worldly effect. I immediately went to offer comfort to the clearly distressed then current Mrs. Epitaph and considered how best to deal with the situation.

My choices appeared simple: either get the offending article cleaned on a "heavy soil" cycle and say nothing more about it; or return the offending article in its disgusting state to Wiggins, and give him a stern lecture regarding his wiping regime.

But then, it was as if a dark cloud descended on me. A sinister idea took root, and as the idea gained substance I threw my head back and laughed a laugh borne of the night. MWHAHAHAHAHAH!

I got a broom handle, gingerly hooked the shit-stained garment, and lustily carried it off to my workroom. I did not emerge for several days as I completed my fiendish work. The following week I held a party at my home, taking care to invite all of my hockey chums and any girls that Wiggins had taken to an even vague interest in. Many partygoers expressed interest in the shoebox-sized item covered in a towel on my mantelpiece. I bid them wait as I keenly anticipated the unveiling of my new prize.

At 10:00 PM, as the party was in full swing, I stopped the music and made an announcement. I enjoined all present to witness my new acquisition, and removed with a flourish the towel. This dramatically revealed a carefully constructed glass case containing a specimen jar that in turn contained Wiggins' shockingly stained underwear, suspended in formaldehyde. It was a twisted simulacrum of an anthropologist's unusual animal specimen. My construction included an engraved plaque, bearing the legend "Shitius Pantus, donated by Dr. Kipper Wiggins."

Gasps of horror and wonder echoed around the room until all turned toward the crimson faced Wiggins, who burst out crying and fled the party with everyone's laughter ringing in his ear. I never saw Wiggins again; he was last rumored to be on a Kibbutz in Israel, no doubt with some obsessive compulsion disorder concerning the frequency and thoroughness of his anal wiping.

At the time it seemed hilarious, but recent events have bought the episode into sharp focus. I have resolved to seek out Wiggins and apologize for his totally uncalled for public humiliation. Can the readers of PoopReport find it in their hearts to forgive me for this terrible crime against shitting?

-- Epitaph