Clothes Encounters Of The Turd Kind
Over the years I have been privy to a couple of excretory "left-behinds" that pretty much left me speechless -- and I am not one easily disgusted by this area of daily human existence. Everyone on this site knows all about my Shameless attitudes and my easygoing, sociable toilet habits. But even I have run into situations that defy a facile or rational explanation.
The first such example of being nonplussed by a shitty scenario occurred when I went off to summer camp at the age of twelve. The camaraderie and boyish hijinks in which we all engaged in the wide-open latrine were right up my alley -- singing raunchy or catchy songs like 99 Bottles Of Beer On The Wall and Plant A Little Watermelon On My Grave while crapping side by side, pants around our ankles, without a care in the world. Good times, good times.
One afternoon, however, upon entering my empty cabin after morning swim, my nostrils were immediately skewered by a monumental eau de sewer. The source of this stench was a pair of tighty-whities caked with crap, turned inside out and basically left out to dry and fester on the footlocker of my cabinmate, Richie, whose bed was right across from mine.
What the hell was he thinking? I could easily project and understand the emergency aspects of his situation. He had evidently gotten the bum's rush and filled his undies to the brim with buttstew. Okay -- it happens. We've all been there and done that. But why in the name of holey underwear did he leave them out like that, as if the cabin were about to undergo some hideous inspection for bowel transgression? After cleaning up in the latrine, why not throw them in one of the nearby dumpsters or the latrine trashcan -- or just walk a distance into the woods surrounding our cabins and hurl the offal object into the underbrush? Displaying his museum-quality artifact of asswork that way just seemed a bit beyond the pale to me -- a brain brown-out, if you will.
Under the circumstances, I elected not to wait around for Richie to confront him with the evidence of his befouled briefs. I quickly changed into my clothes and went on to my next activity. When I returned, the scatstuff had scatted; and I chose not to pursue the issue with Richie. I wondered about him, however, for the rest of the camp session.
Years later in graduate school, I entered a stall in a bathroom frequented by jocks due to its location right next to the athletic cafeteria. I was about to sit down for a little R & R (rip and release, that is) when an uncommonly nasty parfum de poop made me think twice. I quickly pulled up my pants and did a quick inspection of the premises. My best Hercule Poorot imitation uncovered a pair of discarded and thoroughly beshitted Fruit of the Looms looming behind the toilet against the tile wall.
Now, I ask you, wazzup widdat? Once again, as was the case with Richie years earlier, what was this jarhead jock thinking to stow his heinie handkerchief in this manner? He had obviously been KO'd after going a couple of rounds with the heavyweight trots, but could he not have found a way to toss them in the trash can that the custodial staff provded so conveniently by the sinks? If there was a Shameful element to this -- which I can certainly appreciate -- could he not have wiped himself to the best of his ability, stepped out of his shorts, waited until the coast was clear, pulled up his pants, left the stall and tossed them in with the rest of the rubbish, covering them with a paper towel or two? Anything but leaving them tucked away and out of sight to stiffen up like a pair of fertilizer-saturated garden gloves!
There was a hint of turd terrorism in both of these instances that I found a bit disturbing. I can understand not flushing a humongous chunk of intestinal fartitude -- there's that element of oneupsmanshit in which many males engage throughout their lives. But I just don't get leaving these ewwy-gooey elastic wastebands behind like crappy clues on some stinky scavenger hunt.
I'll pose the question once again: what in hell were they thinking?