I lived in Prague back when Eastern Europe was still cool and the place to be. I rented an apartment in a new building on the sixth floor. But keep in mind that when I say new, it was new for Prague -- still not up to standards to which most readers are accustomed.
Booze was cheap in Prague, the city was full of beautiful girls, and the food was ultra greasy and heavy. Girls aside, though, the booze and food could play havoc with your bowels. One night I came home around four AM, completely and utterly annihilated. I had to crap like you couldn't believe -- the cocktail of beer, deep fried cheese and pickled sausages was ready to go. I pressed the button to the elevator. It didn't work.
I started to panic. My need to poop was quite urgent, so I started to run up the stairs. I have never run so fast in my life. As I came to the top of the stairs on the sixth floor, I took a final leap; and as I did so, I crapped myself. I've neglected to say that I was dressed in a jacket and tie with dress pants. Thank Christ this was Europe, so I was wearing briefs instead of boxers; the mess was relatively contained.
I got into the apartment and decided to deal with the mess. I had to shower and clean myself. "What should I do with the pants and underwear?" I thought. Well, I was wasted, so my better judgment had deserted me; I went to the balcony and threw my pants off. They landed in a puddle in front of the stairs at the entrance to the building. At least my apartment wouldn't stink.
I woke up in the morning not remembering the events of the night before. I got dressed for work, went downstairs, and saw the pants; and it all came back to me. I was a little ashamed.
After spending the day at work, I ate nasty stuff again and went out drinking again like I did every night. In the taxi ride home, the urge came on. And I was loaded. I got to my apartment and realized the elevator was still out. Shit!!!
I ran up the stairs; and yes, you guessed it, I shit my pants again, just before the sixth floor. You can see where this is going. I ended up throwing a pair of dress pants off the balcony. Again.
The next morning there were two pairs in the puddle in front of the stairs, and I was running out of pants. I was worried about what would happen if this occurred for a third night. My business wardrobe would be completely decimated. But I didn't go out drinking that night; and coming home after work, I saw the pants had been removed. I pitied the person who removed them. What must they have been thinking as they removed two pairs of expensive, beshitted dress pants?
The silver lining of this story is that my experience of shitting myself in the same place two nights in a row made me stop drinking for a while, until I got control of my bowels again.
-- Meanbastard
