Like a lot of you, I had a newspaper route when I was a lad. I delivered Sunday papers about five blocks from my house. It sucked, but it allowed me to afford some of the smaller pleasures in life like sugary kids cereal and Star Wars figurines (otherwise, my mom would only by generic cornflakes or whatever was on sale -- which usually tasted like wet cardboard -- and I would only get toys on birthdays or Christmas).
One fine Sunday morning I set out to deliver my printed version of misery, filth, corruption and cartoons to their designated destinations. Eyes barely open, crust still caking them, I started out towards the drop-off point. Before I left I had a slight urge to defecate, but it wasn't urgent and I was late (as usual), so I figured it could wait. I walked the five blocks, thinking of the next box of BooBerry cereal that my tips would help me purchase. Tips. Yeah, right. If what I was receiving for my grunt work of toting forty-some-odd newspapers could be referred to as "tips," then waitresses receive a six-figure gratuity.
Anyways, I trotted along and delivered the papers according to my address book, lazily tossing them between the usual screen and storm door. Two streets up on my route I was lucky enough to encounter a dog on a customer's front lawn. As I approached the house, the dog sat quietly, staring at me. There must be a huge difference between mailmen and newspaper boys in a dog's eyes, because as I returned the glare I noticed the dog was ejecting his red lipstick missile. Obviously a male dog, and obviously homosexual. I delivered the paper successfully and moved on. The dog sat with his wet tentacle still searching for love. I had broken another heart.
Flashing forward, I had one more street to go, and the to defecate was stating its demands. My colon had finally woken up, and it did not know nor care that I was nowhere near any type of place for it to release its vomitous wet yawn. It was 6:30 AM, blocks from home, and there was no discreet wooded area or place of business to relieve myself of this burden.
Now, I know we have all heard and read stories of having to poop and having no where to go, so I will not bore you with the run-of-the-mill details of my strife. I finally finished my route; now it was time for the long, long trek home. After about two blocks I felt a pain best described as a giant piston pushing down on a gallon of brown oil resisted only by my 11-year-old clinched starfish. The starfish was certainly earning its pay; it may have lost an arm.
Every twenty feet I was forced to stop and call the balloon knot back to work. I walked gingerly to avoid any malfunctions, stopping to endure my labor pains, each contraction worse than its predecessor. A large brown infant was going to enter this world, and I had to make sure I got to the hospital on time. "I'll name it later," I thought.
I finally reached my block, heel-toeing it all the way. I stopped. I could see my house, the hospital with the glorious side door that would admit me to my porcelain stir-ups that would help me assume proper birth posture. I pondered between contractions -- should I make a mad dash or continue the Charlie Chaplin walk?
Because the pain was so furious (and the balloon knot was halfway unraveled), I decided to make a break for it. I ran for what seemed an eternity and landed on my side porch. I quickly stopped, took a deep breath, and sucked in with all my might. The run had progressed my dilation, and I had to ease baby Ass Phlegm back into the womb.
I went to open the door. And in the infamous words of John Cusack from Better Off Dead I yelled, "KEEEYS!" I fumbled around through my pockets. Found them! Can't get them out! Because my neurotic mother safety-pinned them to the insides of our pockets so we wouldn't lose them!
A safety pin is a simple contraption to operate, but in this scenario it was more like defusing a bomb with seconds to go. Ping. YES! I opened the pin and released my key. As I tried desperately to get the key in the hole, another contraction hit. Sucking up even harder this time, I grimaced and distorted my face to withhold a kicking newborn that just wanted out!
Contraction passed. I inserted the key and turned the knob. Success! I took one step through the door and suddenly heard the cries of my newborn son cradled in my white Hanes. Apparently he couldn't wait fifteen more steps to the delivery room and decided to enter the world right then and there.
Well, first came a sigh of relief. No more pain or agony... but I had shit myself! I juggled the contents of my pants down to the basement while everyone was still asleep upstairs. I undressed and looked upon my son. Alas, he was a stillborn. The brownish-green embryonic fluid had gone straight through my tighty whities and stained the new jeans my mom just bought for me at Chess King.
I was in trouble. She had bitched the whole time buying those pants, proclaiming that I'd better take good care of them, or else it was back to Sears & Roebuck for some good ol' reliable "Toughskins" (shudder). What to do?
I said goodbye to my departed, wadded with my soiled undies and thrown out in a plastic bag hidden under all the other garbage. I took my Chess King pants and racked my brain. Being an 11-year-old, I had no idea on how to remove shit stains from jeans. They certainly never mentioned it during the Bugs Bunny & Road Runner comedy hour.
I decided to ball up the jeans and put them in a filing cabinet in the basement under a box of my father's cancelled checks from years past. No one ever went down there and I figured I'd be safe at least until mom wanted to know where my jeans were. About two weeks later I was confronted with the question of the missing jeans. I made up some story about some school bullies who beat me up and ripped my new jeans, and that I had disposed of them, afraid of the consequences. I received the pity I knew I would get from such a tale -- my mom was not mad, just glad I was ok.
Here's the funny part.
Fifteen years later, after divorcing from my dad, my mom decided to sell the house and move to an apartment. I helped with getting rid of junk and packing stuff up. That's when I came across the filing cabinet in the basement. I had forgot all about it! I cautiously opened the drawer in question, lifted the box of old checks and sure enough, there they were! My coveted Chess King jeans!
The shit had petrified to some kind of hard crackly plastic; fortunately, there was no odor.
I grabbed the jeans and decided to fess up to mom about the true fate of my expensive pants. I brought them upstairs and told her the "real" story. I figured that I'm an adult now... what is she gonna do, ground me?
After hearing the story, my mom grabbed the jeans and started whacking me over the head with them, proclaiming how disgusting I was and that she had paid "good money" for those jeans!! Jeez! I thought for sure after all this time we could've had a laugh about the whole thing, but my mom is frugal to the end. We argued, and I left, and we didn't speak for about five months.
Arguing with my mom about shitting my pants fifteen years prior. No wonder I ended up in therapy!