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 The Referee's FoulPosted 06.06.2006 by KeepOnCrappin (550)
In addition to all the various community services I do (Boy Scouts, something similar to Habitat For Humanity, helping out my church), I also referee soccer games. In my area -- west of Washington, DC -- all the soccer fields are either at schools or in specially built field complexes that are not truly parks, but rather just large groups of fields.
Last week I was reffing the Under 13 girls' games. These girls run really fast. And they love to use their elbows and fingernails. I usually get about three or four elbowing fouls per game, which is above normal. It is more difficult to call fouls than throw-ins or other restarts of play because you have to stop where the foul occurred, raise your flag, and remember which team was fouling. When you are sprinting along, staying with the ball to be able to call offside, it becomes difficult to stop right away and take in the situation while parents, coaches, and other people are all telling you how much your calls suck. After halftime of the first game, I began feeling the urge to take a dump. I would have gone before I came to ref, but I had woken up five minutes before I had to leave, so I had no time. If I had ten minutes, maybe -- but my craps need about five or six minutes to fully expel themselves. I wondered if I would be able to make it after the first game. But no, we were running late -- as usual -- and had to start the second game right away. This game had a large number of elbowing and offside calls. I wondered if they were purposefully making it more difficult for me to hold it in. By the end of halftime, I am sure that the team on the side I was reffing was wondering why the sideline ref was shaking, and why a terrible stench of burnt car tires mixed with a cow that had been rotting for three months was wafting around them. Fortunately, the center ref called the game at the time it was supposed to end, cutting off about five minutes and allowing me to run to the available restroom facilities. Now, the field at which I reffing had port-o-crappers in two locations. There were two very old port-o-crappers that were about five hundred feet from my field. These were paid for by a different organization than the one that I was working for, and were serviced by a different company. I had checked them out the week before, and they were not an option. In addition to there being no locks, they had dirt and crap all over the inside of them. That left me two options in the few minutes I had left: the woods, or the other port-o-crappers. The other port-o-crappers were new, clean (serviced the day before), and paid for by my organization. But they were about a quarter mile away. The woods were closer, but woods do not provide toilet paper -- especially these trees, which were pines. I went to the port-o-crappers. Upon arrival, I approached to the handi-crapper. There was heavy breathing, sighing, and grunting coming from inside. Either two people were really getting it on inside (remember that handi-crappers must be ADA-compliant, so there would be plenty of room), or someone was having an incredibly difficult dump. So I went to the normal one. It was clean and smelled like cinnamon. (From the cleaning chemical, I guess?) I ripped down my shorts and realized how sweaty I had gotten down there. I didn't have much feeling, so I let it go. Usually when I sit down on a crapper, I piss before I shit. This time, even though I had consumed a gallon of Gatorade and a gallon of water, I shat first. It came out easily, but it was long. Sometimes on PoopReport we talk about "laying cable." I was seriously laying about a foot of it -- three-quarters-inch thick. I felt like I was finished, so I stood up -- and then realized I was still pissing. Even though I had made it to the crapper without shitting my pants, I had managed to piss them. Damn it! After wiping, I had to go back and ref my last game with very wet pants. I am not sure if anyone noticed. The next day, there were more games to ref due to rainouts the previous week. Everything was going well. I was at a different set of fields -- one with good weather, good port-o-crappers located two hundred feet from my field, and lots of farts. Which item from the above list does not fit? Which is in the wrong place? As I ran up and down the field, hot gas was just blowing out of me. To make matters worse, I was wearing a cheap brand of boxers. Not my usual Jockeys or Under Armors, but some Kohl's Croft and Barrow on-the-cheap brand. They wedged up in my ass so easily. In order to extricate them, I had to pull them in such a way that it looked like I was picking my ass. So I wasn't able to tell whether I had farted normally or sharted. At halftime, I found out -- from the wetness on my backside. Again, there was no time between games. So I waited until after my last game, and then went to a port-o-crapper to assess the situation. There was nothing on my pants. Nothing. I couldn't figure out what had happened. But when I went home and was getting in the shower, there was a load of wet crap all over my uncomfortable boxers and on my ass cheeks. I threw out the boxers (I hated them anyway) and enjoyed a refreshing hour-long shower. I'm still not sure what happened. I can't even figure out what food caused all these problems. I had Stoufers' Lasagna the day before, and I never have had trouble with that. Post new comment
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