Once again, my story takes place in high school. I had dated "Shannon" for most of my junior year and into the following summer, which was a pretty long relationship for high school kids. She was everything you'd want in a girl -- very smart, very pretty, very kind and considerate. I was head over heels in love with her. Unfortunately (for me), the relationship eventually ran it's course for Shannon, and, as gently as she could, she broke up with me.
I was devastated. But I did a pretty good job of taking it like a man. Even though my guts were in a knot for many months afterwards, I maintained a stoic façade. The fact that she didn't belong to my primary group of friends helped a great deal. I was a partier; she was the quiet, studious type. Therefore, once we broke up, I rarely saw her outside of school.
But one day well into my senior year, about six months after the breakup, this threatened to change.
My primary group of friends consisted of four other guys: Mike (my best friend since the seventh grade), Chuck, James, and Sean. There were a few others who moved in and out of the group, but for the most part, us five were always together. One day I learned that there was a possible budding romance between Shannon and James. They were going to get together for the first time that coming weekend. James, being the good guy that he was, asked me if I was okay with this.
What could I say except that it was cool? Had it been Mike, my "best" friend, I could have pulled rank. You guys know what I'm talking about -- the unspoken agreement between two male best friends that allows each of them to place certain ex-girlfriends off-limits to the other. Unfortunately, James and I weren't in that position. I had no right to request that he back off, and he had no obligation to offer to do so.
So that Friday night we all ended up at a keg party together. It was excruciating being around Shannon. The pain of losing her had dulled to a degree, but seeing her with another guy brought it all rushing back.
On top of that, my stomach was beginning to act up. The beer I was drinking was mixing with the Pizza Hut deep-dish pepperoni pizza I'd had for lunch -- a sure recipe for diarrhea. By about nine PM I had severe gas of the silent-but-deadly, rotten-egg variety. Since the party had spilled into the backyard, I didn't have much trouble releasing the soft stink bombs incognito. Not surprisingly, I soon felt the inevitable shit coming on, so I went back into the house and found a bathroom -- like I said, all signs were pointing to a nasty bout of diarrhea, and I was eager to get it over with.
Instead of diarrhea, though, I produced what I've always thought of as The Squiggles. The Squiggles are small, squiggly-shaped pieces of poop that probably have the consistency of peanut butter -- I say probably because, of course, I've never touched them. The things I've noticed about The Squiggles are that I never squiggle in great quantities and that they always seem to precede diarrhea. This was shaping up to be a textbook case.
Well, the diarrhea wouldn't come, so I put myself back together and rejoined the party, not the least bit relieved. My stomach continued to gurgle and I continued to slyly release horribly foul gas. About twenty minutes later I decided to try again. Back to the bathroom. Again, no luck. Just a few more lonely Squiggles.
As you can guess, this wasn't shaping up to be my best evening. Every few minutes I'd catch a glimpse of Shannon, sometimes with James' arm around her, and my heart would break just a little bit more. Given this, I wasn't the least bit disappointed when the cops broke up the party early in the evening. Six of us then piled into Sean's old Ford Torrino. Sean was at the wheel, and Chuck, who was extremely drunk, had called shotgun. I was behind Sean in the back seat. To my right was Mike; to his right was Shannon, and then James.
As soon as we got on the road, Shannon said she didn't feel good and asked Sean to take her home. She'd complained earlier in the evening of cramps and I guess they were getting worse. Since we had dated for so long, I knew that she usually suffered severe menstrual pains during her time of the month. Of course Shannon was too much of a lady to specify to a carload of guys what kind of cramps she was experiencing, but I think that's a pretty good guess. In any event, I selfishly brightened at the prospect of losing Shannon.
I glanced over to her. She didn't see me because she had her eyes closed. She was slightly bent over and had placed her hand on her abdomen. Her face wore a grimace of obvious pain. "Oh my God, my stomach hurts," she moaned softly.
James put his hand on her knee and she leaned back against his shoulder.
I felt a hot stab of jealousy so intense that my vision actually swam.
To this day I'm ashamed of what happened next.
Without thinking, I subtly lifted my leg and let loose with one of those ungodly disgusting -- but silent -- farts.
It took about three seconds to reach everyone in the car.
"OH MY GOD SHANNON, YOU NEED TO GO TO A DOCTOR!" I shouted, rolling down my window.
It was pandemonium.
Windows were frantically rolled down. Shannon went berserk, screaming that it wasn't her. Chuck (who was very drunk and a notorious puker) put his hand over his mouth and started to gag. Sean started screaming at Chuck not to puke in his car. Mike, James, and myself were laughing uncontrollably.
I farted again.
"JESUS CHRIST, SHANNON, STOP IT," I shouted through my laughter. "SEAN, PULL THIS CAR OVER, I CAN'T TAKE IT."
Sean was already pulling over in a desperate attempt to save his upholstery from being puked on by Chuck. He screeched to a stop in the McDonald's parking lot, the local hangout for our high school. We all piled out of the car, gasping for breath as much from the hysterical laughing as from the farts.
Shannon was in tears, cussing the lot of us. She stomped off. McDonald's was pretty crowded so she ultimately found another ride home. Chuck managed to get halfway out of the car before puking -- only a small part of the passenger-side door was lightly splashed.
Now, there are undoubtedly many of you thinking that this was the gaseous equivalent of turd terrorism. To this I have three words in response: guilty as charged. I'm the first to admit that Shannon was a sweet gal and did not deserve what happened. But in my defense, it was a crime of passion! To borrow a Seinfeld-ism, worlds were colliding!
But if you're not buying my defense, you may take solace in what happened next: the diarrhea shit-storm that had been building all evening partially broke loose, probably as a result of the pressure from my laughter. For the first time in my life, I sharted in my pants -- perhaps as a rebuke from the poo gods for soiling the reputation of an undeserving young lady.
Fortunately a toilet was only a few steps away. I was able to leisurely take care of business and then clean myself up. I ended up just throwing away my underwear.
But Shannon never forgave James for laughing at her. Much to my relief, that night was their first and last date. Unfortunately, Shannon never spoke to me again either. And ya know what? I don't blame her a bit.