Incontinence is a bitch. As I have written before, post-surgery antibiotics a couple of years ago left me reliant on acidophilus pills to cure my stomach ills -- in other words, to keep me from getting the shits. Problem is, I rarely remember to take them. Bad luck for me, bad luck for the various public bathroom attendants in my area; but good luck for you, dear reader.
Today I was driving home from work, stuck in terrible rush-hour traffic. I should say that when these shit attacks come, I usually have anywhere from one to maybe fifteen minutes to get to a toilet before things start involuntarily happening down there.
Maybe it's a preview of old age. Things slide out. Sometimes clenching or pressure (against a car seat, for example) can keep things stable. Sometimes not.
Today I actually made it through the traffic. I was almost home. And then I pushed my luck.
I had a library book in the car that was due back that very day. I got cocky. "Hey," I figured, "I made it this far. Things seem to be calm down below. I can just pull into the parking lot and walk over to the drop-off box in front of the library."
In short: wrong.
Maybe it was the walking motion. Being upright again and ass cheeks moving back and forth. But the caboose got loose. I made it to the drop-off box. Leaned against it. Put my book in. And shit in my pants.
The library was still open, thankfully, so I wouldn't have to go back to my car and sit in my poop. I went in and finally had some luck: in addition to the bathroom that I knew about on the second floor, there was one right there in the lobby!
I went in and dealt the best I could with the situation. As I sat down on the toilet and finished shitting, I looked down into my soiled underpants. Racing stripes? That's an underplay. This was a full-on car crash.
I got up and looked down upon chaos. There was so much fudge on my rump that it was all over the toilet seat. I went to wipe and of course the crazy toilet paper contraption required an engineering degree. I had to crouch in front of it and jam my hand inside of it to get anything out.
The first wipe resulted in a dirty hand; and as I went to throw the paper in the toilet, there was so much extra hanging off of it that some flew across the bathroom and hit the wall next to the wastepaper basket. Thus, the title of this story popped into my head: a politically incorrect joke from childhood that made me laugh in the midst of this fiasco.
The only problem was: where was the poop that escaped while I was in the parking lot. Was it tucked in my pants leg? Oh, there it is -- smack in the middle of the bathroom floor.
The smile that I gave to the librarian as I walked out pained me. She seemed so sweet and unsuspecting.
