Scene: The 1980s, days of Brat Pack films and Cold War fears. I was a freshman in high school and was lurking on the local prep school football field for a game of touch/tackle football with my friends (the prep school field was far superior and no one was ever there in the spring).
The games were played with skill and verve and consisted mostly of long passes and poor downfield coverage by lanky and stupid 14 year old boys. The opposing team decided to throw a little razzledazzle into the repertoire of their playbook and, aping the technique of the 1985 Chicago Bears, handed the ball off to their biggest player, a behemoth with the nom de guerre "Peanut".
Peanut broke through the middle of the line and all the downfield coverage quickly moved to stop him. Peanut was big and strong and was churning his legs to move through the mass of elbows, acne and grunts rising up to meet him.
Needless to say, Peanut rolled over our meanly organized efforts to stop his progress. Just as he broke through to a long length of green grass and an unopposed touchdown, an arm broke out of the pile and attempted to bring him down via his t-shirt collar. The grip was weak, and slid down his back, eventually finding purchase in his sweatshorts waistband. The fingers gripped, and the combined action of Peanut moving downfield and the arm remaining in the scrum caused his shorts to be pulled to his knees.
Not one to be stopped from a certain TD because of societal expectations of decency, Peanut kept charging downfield. All of us in the pile could only follow his progress in humbled defeat. However, while watching Peanut run to his glory, all noted an enormous brown stain on his underpants. This stain was not a small blemish against the pure field of his tight-whiteys -- no, it was a stain that encompassed his cheeks, his butthole and spread even to the front of his legs.
All was quiet. Peanut realized his secret had been exposed, and stopped his run. He dropped the ball and undropped his shorts, mumbling, stuttering and embarrassingly smiling in that sad, brave-faced kind of way humiliated people do when they are stuck with no escape from their predicament.
Was Peanut a poor wiper? Did he shit in his pants during the game? Did we have shit on ourselves? Did we really just see an enormous shit stain in our friend's underwear? All these questions and more ran through our young minds.
The silence was broken only by an exclamation from the pile -- "I did NOT just see that!" Another awkward and embarrassed silence followed -- even the birds and crickets stopped chirping.
The game ended after that, never to resume. It could no longer be an innocent and fun past time; it was now forever tainted with Peanut's poor hygiene and inexplicably enormous turd stain. We went our separate ways, washed and scrubbed our bodies and minds of this trauma, and never spoke of if it again.
Until now. Peanut, we have never forgotten, we always remembered the devil's mark in your shorts. From that day onward, I no longer feared nuclear annihilation from the Soviets -- for I had seen a far worse fate on your underwear. That day, the living surely envied the dead.
-- The Lizturd King