Shortly after sitting down to my feast, I began to feel a slight rumbling in my tummy. Thinking nothing of it, I continued to munch contentedly. About halfway through my meal, however, things were beginning to reach a critical point. What was moments before a slight rumbling now sounded like a pack of hyenas fighting over a choice piece of carrion. Soon, a sharp pain began in my gut, and I broke out in a cold sweat. Clutching my stomach, I approached the lunchroom teacher and asked her if I could use the restroom.
In the grand tradition of all strict old teachers with large facial moles and orthopedic shoes, she curtly told me to go back to my table.
In a panic, I took my seat and tried to figure a solution to my problem. If I could just hold it for fifteen more minutes, I would be back in my homeroom teacher's class. Surely she would be more sympathetic to my shit situation.
Then, it happened. The moment that all veteran shitters know and dread: The Drop. Without warning, I felt an urgent and burning pressure on my young bung. And with it came a grim realization: I was not going to last much longer against this deluge of dookie. In a blind panic, I ran out of the cafeteria, and down the hallway toward the bathroom. Blessed relief was only seconds away!
But alas, like all tragic shit heroes, my destiny was to be struck down by the brown and stinky hand of fate. Mere feet from the bathroom door, my body threw me a curveball. I had been concentrating all my energy on driving back the army of diarrhea that was storming my asshole, and in the process had failed to recognize the dire situation occurring at the other end of my body. I began to spew vomit all over the floor, leaving a trail of partially-digested fish sticks and mashed potatoes in my wake as I pushed onward into the bathroom. Relieved that I had not gotten any puke on my clothes, and happy that I had made it to the toilet, I staggered into the stall and began to undo my pants. But alas, my short-lived triumph quickly turned into a Pyrrhic victory of unimaginable stinkiness. Just as I was unzipping my fly and preparing to drop trou, a torrent of burning juice shot out of my sphincter.
I quickly but gingerly assessed the damage. I was not prepared for what awaited me. My tightie-whities were completely filled with a heinous colonic concoction. Yellow-brown in color, it emitted a stench that would turn the stomach of even the most grizzled of men.
Rather than cleaning myself up then and there, I proceeded to the office. When the secretary saw my bow-legged, Quasimodo-esque shuffle through the door, she immediately knew something was amiss, and fetched the school nurse. I shamefully told her what happened, although my soiled pants and my stench probably spoke for themselves.
The nurse directed me to a small bathroom, where I stood until she returned with a box of wet-wipes, a plastic bag, and a clean pair of shorts. She then closed the door and left me to do my bidding.
After about 30 wet-wipes, my bung was as clean as a surgeon's hands and smelled lemony fresh. I put the foul clothes into the bag and put on the new shorts, which were much too short and quite hideous. I must have looked like George Michael in the "Wake Me Up Before You Go Go" video. Unfortunately, the nurse did not stock spare undies, so I was forced to go commando for the rest of the day.
Some people say that everything in life is a learning experience, and I agree. Up until my second year of high school, I always carried a spare pair of underwear in my backpack.
-- Carlos [1]