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 Up Poo LanePosted 01.16.2006 by Keri B (35)
While reading the early childhood memories of fellow PoopReporters, I decided that I needed to recount a story that I had pushed back into my memory for years. A story that was resurrected from the depths of my mind by the inspiring childhood stories of folks like you. So it is to you, fellow PoopReporters, whom I dedicate the story of my first -- and only -- accidental public poo.
It was an exceptionally hot day in late June. The kind of day where you could see the air move and the heat made your ass checks stick together like superglue. It was that particular summer when I began my third year working for a local tomato farm. By my third year I could pick a record fifty-one buckets of tomatoes an hour and was the Commander-in-Chief of a small group of kids whom I ruled over with Silly Putty fist. Hey, as long as we got the job done, I didn't give a damn. We embarked on our third day of pruning. Beginning at the horrible hour of six AM, the day basically consisted of skidding your butt over black plastic and picking the third, fifth, and seventh leaves off a small tomato plant. By hour five the group and I had probably covered a good two miles on our asses and were all starting to hallucinate. We were all hot, sticky, covered in pesticides, and suffering first-degree burns on our ass from the hot, black plastic. I could tell group demeanor was about to plunge like the stock market crash into 1929. The only thing that could bring the group back at this point in time was a first-rate, earsplitting fart. Lucky for everyone, I had one a brewing. I began talking to my best friend Heidi, who was about two meters behind me. After a sheepish smile she began to see all the signs of a good fart coming on -- the squint of the eyes, the crinkle of the nose, the sheer sense of determination on my face, all telltale signs that a momentous fart was about to grace the Earth. Ripping the perfect fart takes skill, it takes timing, and most of all it takes Shamelessness. I then proceeded to let out the longest, loudest, proudest fart of my life. All went as planned except for one thing: I shit myself. I tried to cover it up as quickly as I could, but Heidi instantly knew (later claiming she saw the terror in my eyes). She went into silent laughing mode. When she recovered from this, she screamed. Heidi screamed loud enough that you, four years ago, may have heard a scream, "Oh my God! You just shit yourself!" Nothing had been truer. To say the sky was blue wasn't even as true as that fact that I had indeed shit myself. It was a ferocious spout of mushy poop. To this day I recall thinking it was a lot like mashed potatoes. And now everyone, including you, knew it. The group spent a good ten minutes laughing. "Hey," I thought. "At least I accomplished what I set out for." It was at this point in time that I needed to do what everyone who has ever shat in public knows they have to do: I needed to assess my options. I could either walk the entire HALF MILE to a bathroom, or I could hit the weeds. Now, had it been just me and Heidi, the weeds would have been my first and only thought. However, I was the group leader -- their superior. Watching your leader finish a shit in the weeds could be detrimental to the whole respect thing. So, it was a'hiking I went. Alas, I also needed an excuse as to why I was leaving the field, in case I encountered my real boss. The girls and I mulled over it for a while until we decided to dump the water bottles and claim I was going to go fill them up. I grabbed them and began my journey like Frodo heading away from the Shire, with my friends' laughter fading slowly in the distance. One-eighth of a mile down Poo Lane, the shit had begun to melt somewhat and run down the side of my leg. If it hits my shoe, life will end. I wanted to run, but I wasn't stupid enough to run -- no, running would only make it worse One-sixth of a mile down Poo Lane, life began to end as the poo proceeded on its journey to the base of my sock. One-fourth of a mile down Poo Lane, life ended as the poo dripped into my loosely-laced shoe. I don't know why I didn't lace them up tighter. One-half mile down Poo Lane, approaching the farmhouse, life was more than ended as the shit was well in the bottom of my shoe. It had squished between my toes and the idea of it was making me gag. Thoughts began pouring through my mind. How was I going to pull this off? Did I smell like shit? The smell of sweat, pesticides, and dirt was strong -- but was is THAT strong? I walked to the door and knocked. Eddy, the woman who lived there, took one look at me and told me I had to use the bathroom in the garage. But I don't think she knew. It took me a good twenty minutes to clean everything up; I even remembered to fill the water bottles back up. I started walking back, a changed woman, a woman who had just marched half a mile with shit in her pants, a woman who was remarkably okay for what she had just been through. And a woman who, maybe -- I'm not sure, but it's possible -- wished there had been a forum where she could tell people about it. Post new comment
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