How To Hide A Shart
A couple of years ago, I finished up a six-year stint at the department store from hell. While I can fill this forum with tales involving scat left by customers, this first foray into poop reporting involves my own creation.
I was about to graduate college and I had a part-time job (which I loved!) in my field. I worked as a pricer, which meant I mostly came in at five AM to get my department signed and priced. I had a really cool manager -- until he left and our megabitch HR person got his position. This woman was insecure as all hell, and really enjoyed calling me in my department at five or six in the morning to scream at me about not being done with projects yet, even if I had just started them. She took every opportunity -- opportunities mainly created by her -- to scream at me and belittle me, sometimes until she was red in her ugly little face. Why I put up with this bullshit, I'll never know.
Her attitude towards me mixed badly with the fact I had developed a nervous stomach.
One magical morning, I was working on a project when I was paged. It was about six, and I was already sweating profusely. (The store manager was an anal-retentive, skinflint motherfucker who refused to turn on the air conditioning; so I got to work in a hot, humid, dark department.) Just knowing the monster was on the phone made me sweat buckets. I knew what was going to happen once I answered that page. My stomach began to tighten. I could feel the gas pressure against my internal organs. I knew that an onslaught of farting was about to commence. Every time she was even within my sight range, my bowels would fill with enough gas to take care of our national energy needs. I would produce a muffled, psychotic symphony of flatulence, thus creating a noxious odor not previously known to exist in nature. In short, I had a weapon of ass destruction.
I took the call and the screaming commenced. After I hung up, shaking and sweating, my stomach was in a tailspin. Another manger (one who was actually very nice) was next to me. The gas pressure was tremendous, but I didn't want to pollute the air and make the nice manager ill. I had no choice but to move myself away from the manager slightly and let a tiny fart escape.
This, however, was no fart. It was a dreaded shart. For the first time since first grade, I had shit myself. At work, no less.
My underwear felt hot, sticky, and wet. Inside my head, alarms were screaming, and I was yelling, "FUUUUUUUCCCKKK!!!" a la Bridget Jones. What to do? If I went downstairs to use the toilet, I would run into SuperBitch. She would scream at me, and probably follow me into the bathroom, demanding to know what I was doing in there. So staying upstairs in the dept was probably the safest alternative. On the other hand, I had a skidmark that would rival anything on the pavement at the Indy 500 in my previously innocent underpants. I knew it was just a matter of time before the stink hit. The bathroom was a must.
I went down the elevator and didn't see the monster. Good. I booked it to the ladies room, where I plopped my ass on the toilet and surveyed the damage. There was a thick, dark brown plop of poo in my underpants. It looked to have the consistency of paste. It wasn't too big -- just thick. What to do?
First thing's first. I pulled out toilet paper to wipe my cornhole; but instead of the shit wiping off, it stuck stubbornly and actually ripped my toilet paper. I realized that if I tried to wipe it out of the undies, it would just smear. I was wearing khaki pants, and if I chucked the undies and went commando, there would be a pretty unpleasant, stinky stain that would ruin my pants and bear as a confession to a workplace pants-shitting. I decided to keep the undies (gross as this was) and wear them as a makeshift thong -- shoving the crotch far up my crack to hopefully avoid further exposure to air and to block contact between the remaining toilet paper, the shit, and my pants. (Yes, the toilet paper was still stuck in my ass.)
I went back upstairs and worked as fast as I could. Thankfully, I had our department's office to myself for a while after I finished my work for the day. And fortunately the poop deity smiled warmly upon me -- for this was one of the days that I left early to go to my other job.
I hopped on a bus about an hour and a half after the shitting. I went home, chucked the undies, and took a nice, long, hot shower. I was pleasantly surprised to find that my stuffed-crack idea worked: no telltale shitstain had disgraced my khakis. I was able to throw them in the wash with a clean conscience... and, later, clean pants.
I quit that job soon after. I cannot describe the sense of freedom and liberation. Life improved after that, and I have -- knock on wood -- not shit myself at work since.