On this one fateful morning, the iron ass was not to be so. I had just finished working the night shift and was headed home at seven AM. Everything was cool when I left work for the twenty-or-so-minute drive home. I cranked up the tunes and got on the highway. About halfway through my trip, my ass went "KAPOW!" There was a cannonball in my rectum waiting to be fired. I had two choices: crap on the side of Interstate 78 during morning rush hour, or clench my asshole like a naked person in a roomful of excited proctologists.
The former was tempting, as I knew I would go immediately home and write a poop report about it, instead of forgetting about it for two years, but it was about nine fucking degrees outside; so visions of colonoscopies and twelve-inch dildos ran through my head for the rest of the trip home.
Ahhh, home. That comforting place where you can really let it all out. The place where the sphincter relaxes proportionally with proximity to one's own beloved commode. My home at the time was a duplex; I lived in the top half of the house. Those stairs would be my undoing that morning. I hobbled up them like a pirate with a peg leg, trying to keep my legs as straight and together as possible. It wasn't happening. I made it to the kitchen and the dam broke. The cannon fired. The drawbridge was let down. The cook spilled the soup. I pooped my pants a mere fifteen feet from the crapper. Much like what happened in Eastern Europe, the Iron Ass had fallen and crapitalism was in full force between my underpants and my rectum.
It was a brown, sticky mess, but I think that goes without saying. I'll not spare the details: the underwear was toast. They were a new pair, too. Normally I would have rinsed them and saved them, but I had just busted my ass at work all night only to come home and have my ass bust, and I was fucking tired and pissed off. They were destined for the trash.
The rest of this story reads like pretty much any story of someone who just shat their pants -- squirt out the rest of the cannon fodder, wipe a million times, take a shower because you're sure you're not clean enough, and walk around for the next few weeks in shame, wondering if your hull is going to be breached once again.
I still wonder what would have happened if I had crapped on the side of the highway. With my luck, I would have been picked up by the cops with nine degree shitsicles hanging from my ass. That would have been a great poop report. Maybe I'll try it next time.