The Revenge Of Gramma's Pants

I am twenty years old, and until about four p.m. today I could say that I had never shit my pants since being potty trained and all. Can I say this now? Nope. This is what happened:

A few months ago my gramma gave me a pair of pants that she used to wear. My gramma is pretty cool, so the pants were normal jeans, not those high-waisted, old lady, Harriet Carter catalog rayon things that most old ladies wear. And since she had been wearing them during the time she was in chemotherapy, they were a smaller size than either she or I was wearing at the time. She gained weight, thank God, and couldn’t fit into them any more. Neither could I when I first took them home. I got chubby last year.

I have been working out and I lost about eight pounds since this summer. Now the pants fit me. I was kind of excited to zip them up. There’s a party tonight, and I figured I would wear them. Nope. They are in the washing machine.

I went outside to smoke a cigarette earlier. After a few puffs, my butt puckered. “Oh man, I have to poop,” I thought. I also thought I could finish the cigarette. Nope. I could not.

I snuffed the cigarette out and turned to go back into the house, and when I did something leaked out of my butt. “Shit,” I said. Nope. Not shit. Diarrhea.

Some of it ran down my leg, and some of it squeezed up to the waistband. I could not believe what was happening. By the time I got to the bathroom the damage was done, and I had to get into the shower. I think my gramma cursed those jeans. She had told me about how she had messed herself during her ordeal with chemo, and while I didn’t laugh at her, I did say that I would never do that. Guess what? Nope. I did it.

I am not telling my gramma.

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