I volunteered to help with the National Veterans Wheelchair Games in 2006. Other volunteers and I were downtown helping to put together some roadway barriers and crap in order to shuffle traffic around properly. It wasn't exactly bitter cold, but it wasn't really warm at all either, despite the fact that it was the first week of July in Alaska. But I digress.
I was assisting some hapless youths from another city put together a barricades when BAM! My bowels began broadcasting an urgent message in dump code to my brain; shit now or forever stain your briefs. Be advised that these youth knew absolutely nothing about what they were doing, and I really needed to give them direction. However, the focus of my concern at the moment was that my sphincter was down, and that's where the contents of my bowels were bound to arrive. I must have been pale or had some type of horrid expression on my face, because one of those hapless youths asked me, "Mr. Bob ... are you okay?” "Yes," I answered curtly, "I'm, uh ... just thinking about what Harold might want us to do with the L-poles." Mind you, I had no earthly idea who Harold was or what in crap's name an L-pole could have been, but the concern melted from the youth's face just the same; he had been distracted the shapely derriere of a fine-looking young lady helping with the next set of barricades.
As you may no doubt imagine, I stiff-walked away from the scene. At one point, I moaned loudly enough while shuffling along that a passerby asked, "Is anything wrong?" I pointed to the roof of an adjoining building where several workers were congregating. "I have to tell Harold," I stammered, "that they're doing it all wrong up there." Thank God for Harold – whoever he was - as his imaginary ass had covered up for me twice so far. I instinctively knew, however, that the third time would not be a charm, as my ass was about to perform a credible imitation of a shit-spewing Phalanx cannon.
I hobbled into the front door of a nearby office building, past a guard with his eyes closed and his feet up on a desk. Down the hall I went, knowing that I would be able to find a bathroom in ten seconds flat if I were not in my current state. After what seemed like a forty-five minute hunt (but in reality was less than half a minute) I located the restroom. Upon entry, I was confronted with the standard two urinal, two throne setup common in many office buildings. Alternately arching my back and bending over ninety degrees, depending upon the severity and location of the intestinal spasms coursing through my body, I fumbled with my jeans and was in mid-fall onto the toilet seat, briefs nearly clear of the cannon barrel when it hit.
It is fair to say that perhaps only Picasso could have painted a more bizarre brown stain than what appeared upon the target zone of my briefs. Well, shit! Literally. Miraculously, I was spared the indignity of another person appearing in the bathroom as I surveyed the damage. Briefs... gone. Blue jeans... spared - but only barely. Floor, throne and throne seat... painted as only a drunken visage of a mudfight gone awry might reveal. My tennis shoes had watery fecal material perhaps an inch up the heels but for the most part were poop-free. I knew what I had to do, as my luck could not hold out forever. After carefully wiping enough of the substance off of my ass so as to not allow seepage onto my still virgin briefs, I held my jeans up and exited the stall, only to occupy the still clean stall next to mine. I pulled off my shoes, carefully avoiding the shit-stained, man-made material (thank God it wasn't the canvas part), then my jeans, and then carefully negotiated what was rapidly becoming two shit tunnels - the leg holes of my briefs. After a quick prayer, I dashed out of the stall, naked from the waist down, and rushed to the sink to wash my shoes with soap and water. I then soaked both of my socks in clean water and retreated to the stall in a rush. I hoped to wipe my ass to a somewhat more clean state of being.
When I was done, I was left with two shit-stained socks and a pair of briefs that looked like a designer version of some mad scientist’s experiment gone amok. I made one final dash to the trash receptacle in the restroom to deposit socks and briefs which stunk enough to knock the proverbial buzzard off of a shitwagon, thinking I was close to a victorious stealth clean-up. But back in the stall, as I was pulling on my jeans, I was startled by the door to the restroom opening; someone had walked in. He passed my stall, apparently headeding for the Zone of Shame. I quivered in fear as he opened the stall door; and after he was presented with my mess I heard him exclaim, "HOLY SHIT! Who in the HELL would do such a thing?" He sounded breathless. It occurred to me that he was trying not to breathe. At that point, I figured what the hell... in for a penny, in for a pound.
"Man, all I know is I was walking in, when this tall, skinny, blonde dude about knocked me down leaving. He was laughing and saying stuff like 'this will fix’em’. I opened that stall door after he left and ... DAMN!" I reported this as dispassionately as I could, somehow avoiding outright laughter. Then, I calmly sashayed out of the stall to meet a guy that was nearly a foot taller than me and menacing-looking. His only answer? "Was it that asshole Clark?"
He uttered the name in a voice that I can only describe rancorous venom usually reserved for pedophiles and Republicans at U.C. Berkeley.
"Shit man, coulda been," I said as I made a show of washing my hands and sedately walking out, avoiding the impulse to run down the hall and return to my post on the street.
Well ... at least I didn't implicate Harold.
