Going away to soccer camp at Cal Berkeley for seven long days, I was apprehensive, as most twelve-year-olds are about being away from home for the first time; but I knew a few other kids with whom I was going to room, so I was very excited. After drifting around the hundred-year-old dorm and scouting out the cafeteria located a half-mile away, I met up with some of my teammates from back home. We got suited up in our early 90's up-the-butt soccer shorts and shin guards and headed off to practice. After three hours and numerous Mountain Blast Gatorades, I had worked up a massive hunger. We broke for lunch and began our slog over to the cafeteria.

This is what I had been looking forward to the most about my trip: not having to eat my mom's crap food -- and, more importantly, being able to eat whatever I wanted from the vast choices available in Cal's cafeteria. I started out with a little something that looked interesting and I had never before eaten: eggplant parmesan. I followed that by an amazing "create your own burger" burger, with extra mayo, extra cheese, a bucket of ranch to dip it in, and a side of mac and cheese. Not to mention sixty-four ounces of Coke. I was about to call it an afternoon when I realized that I had missed the desert section. Like a jackal, I jumped on the biggest brownie I could find and chased it with a (rather ironic) Mr. Softie ice cream cone.

By this point I realized that enough was enough, and started to head back to the dorm to rest. No sooner had the door to the cafeteria slammed shut behind me when I felt the sudden and rather disturbing onset of what I would soon discover to be the vilest creature to which I had ever given birth.

At first I thought that it was tolerable, and slowly started to make my way back to the dorm, Mr. Softie in hand. About ten meters into my half-mile death march, the pain went from mildly uncomfortable to something akin to being impaled through the ass with an exhaust pipe. I had to sit down, and fast. I located the nearest park bench and sat. I knew at that moment that I might do something I had not done in ten years: shit my pants.

I went straight back to the cafeteria but, to my chagrin, was barred entry, since I was obviously not a student and had already burned my daily lunch token. I realized that every second that passed was too precious to be arguing with the numbnuts at the door, so I turned and started to run. Bad idea. The Coke that I had so eagerly pounded was now acting much the same way gunpowder operates: building up enough pressure to bang. After about forty meters of mad dashing, the pain became unbearable.

I sat down on the curb and held my knees to my chest. Right about that time, a crew of campers walked by and asked if I was okay. In desperate candor I said, "If I don't get to a bathroom soon, I'm going to shit my pants."

One guy pointed to some ivy next to a four-lane road and said, "Dude, drop your nugget in those bushes."

I was horrified. Not only was the bush only a foot high, but cars were passing three per second at sixty mph. Not an option. I decided I just had to get back to the dorm. I locked my ass as best I could and slowly walked, hand on crack.

By the time I could see my dorm I was thrilled the contractions were slowing and my sphincter was relaxing. But then it hit me, out of the blue, right as I stepped up to the main entrance -- the worst pain I had ever felt in my twelve years of existence. I had to stop, throwing caution and humility to the wind as I held my ass closed with my middle and index finger. I was quite a sight as I waddled across the floor to the bathroom, but I knew I had made it.

Then, a cruel twist of fate: the "bathroom" on the first floor had only urinals and washing machines. I was stupefied. For a brief moment I considers blowing my load in the urinal; then in the washer, a thought which even then made me snicker. But the risk was too great -- someone could walk in and see some psycho dumping in a washer. I headed up to the second floor where I knew a shitter awaited.

I wasn't looking forward to the flight of stairs that lay in front of me, and for good reason -- at the top of the stairs my ass and hand gave out; the mudflow was amazing. Through my fingers and around my tightie-whities the turd was looking for daylight, and my Hanes were not stopping it. On some level the relief was fantastic; but the horror at being the kid at camp who crapped his pants was not something I wanted to endure. As I walked past my buddies' room they all walked out and asked "Where the hell have you been?" followed by "What the fuck is that stench?" I just kept walking and said, "That dude down there farted."

I ran in the bathroom, discarded the undies in a pile, walked into the shower, and went straight into my room.

Later that day we all laughed about the moron who must have shit his pants in the bathroom.

-- Sir Shitsalot