Thursday, June 14, 2007

Strange But True Tales of Doodie: The Re-Enactment, Part 2

And now, the epic conclusion to this scat-tastic tale.

I walked through the very locker room where it all began, then stepped out onto the court where one brave Detroit baller said what was on the minds of all in attendance: "You smell like shit nigga." It was time for gym class, the final period of the day. A period held in the perfect arena for this re-production of poopery: ground zero.

I grabbed a ball as a good dozen of my classmates, including our famed dump dropper, watched from the sidelines. I got warmed up, and began to gain speed. Few were prepared for what would come next.

Like a high-flying marriage of NBA Jam and Michael Jordan, I launched toward the net. My body tensed, my face contorted. A guttural war cry rose from my belly; a deafening, bassy trombone-blast bellowed from my anus. Boomshakalaka: the ball went swoosh, yet I couldn't help but think of Prince's When Doves Cry:

Sometimes I'm just like my father, too bold.
Years earlier my dad, in an impressive display of gastrointestinal athleticism, spun wildly and performed a perfectly executed side-kick/fart combo. The result: a solid turd launching out the leg of his shorts, and into the wall.

You've heard the bathroom rhyme of sorrow: "Here I sit, broken hearted, thought I'd shit, but only farted" Well, there I dunked, thought I'd farted, but instead defecated all over myself like a filthy animal. I was brought back down to earth, in more ways than one; it's your lucky day Mike, there's a new brown boy in town to take the heath bar heat. The place sounded like a Def Comedy Jam show. Mike stormed out, which only amplified the howls. It soon became clear that no one really knew what had just happened. I was in the clear. The chances of "fallout" were slim; under my gym shorts I wore a pair of Lycra trunks, which mashed the turd up against my ass. I played along, "pretending" that I had shit my pants. I was soaked in sweat, putting on a big, fake laugh. I let several minutes go by before casually mumbling "I've gotta take a piss."

I darted to the school's rarely used "gross bathroom". But as nasty as those toilets were, it was nothing compared to wearing a fully-packed speedo-diaper. I rushed into a stall, locked the door, and pulled down my shorts; it was worse than I could have imagined. This was no wet squirty turdy, or a damp loosey goosey, it was a fresh baked brownie stamped to the back of my shorts and ass.

I scraped off what I could with the T.P, then shuffled to the sinks to wet some paper towels; praying that a fellow student or teacher wouldn't come in and find me naked from the waist down, my butt cheeks smeared brown. I scrubbed my ass until I felt slightly less disgusted with my self, then took a good look at the trunks; they were a lost chocolate covered cause. Even the gym shorts were a mess. I didn't bother to clean either, I just wrapped them up in a wad of paper towel, and then crammed them deep into the garbage can. But now a new challenge had arisen.

Heading pants less through the gym, and into the locker room to retrieve my school clothes wasn't an option. My only hope was the small towel around my neck, one of the few non-doodie covered possessions I had left.

Soon I was in the, thankfully, empty halls, and maneuvering to the exit closest to the bathroom. The double doors of salvation that lead to the parking lot.

The lot fell under the watchful eye of our Vice Principal, a dead-ringer for Al Gore, who sat in his office window, waiting to catch students smoking in their cars, or making a mid-day fast-food run. His rule was: once you pulled in, you didn't go back out until the final bell had rung. This mattered little to me, as I stood wrapped in a towel, the living embodiment of some long lost, scatological Baby Huey comic. I was a solid athlete, and had beaten members of the track team in both sprints and long distance runs. I knew I could make it. I waited, watching him sit in his office from a crack in the double doors that offered my best chance of escape.

Then the shot from the starter's pistol rang: he turned away from the window.

I was like Arnold and Yaphet in The Running Man. Only I don't have an Austrian accent, nor a black penis. And instead of one of those fancy skin-tight numbers, I was wearing a hand towel with my balls flopping around and my ass hanging out. The multiple criminal charges that could have been brought against me at that point didn't matter; a jail cell would have been a blessing compared to my "accident" being made public. At the time I was too afraid to look back, but I'd like to think that our vice-principal got a glimpse of my freshly wiped butt cheeks before I turned the corner and hopped into my truck.

The next day people asked what happened to me, or where I went off to during gym class. My response, even to my best of friends, was the same, a confused "Huh? Oh, uh, nowhere, I was here the whole time. Why?"

I never came forward with the full story until now, and to this day the incident remains the only known case of someone inadvertently shitting their pants, while making fun of someone who inadvertently shit their pants.


Joseph Luster said...

Good God. I've been waiting for the follow-up to the first part, and it blew away my expectations.

Someone that doesn't know you and the fact that, like me, you don't fuck around with Tales of the Anus, would probably think this is just some Mega Fiction.

DanielLee said...

Someday I will be able to create my own poopy scenario, complete with a supreme growler that only a champion could unleash. Until that day, nothing else matters...