The day we all knew was coming again is finally here.

You know that old saying, “Always a bride’s maid, never a bride”? Well, we all know I’ve been a bride before, but it’s been a while, and with too many near-misses to count since the last real thing. But today it finally happened again: I totally crapped my pants.

The last such incident where I came close involved me driving to my softball game with Dave Gunnell, who was filling in on my team that night. Perhaps not coincidentally, this story starts the same way. This time we had just barely gotten on Railroad Canyon when I first felt it, so we were a good 15 minutes away from getting to the field, more specifically the bathroom, or “Sanctuary” as I prefer to call it. I thought about stopping at a gas station or something on the way, but seriously, how often does this happen to me, and I usually make it just in time, right? So what’s the worst that could happen?

When we were coming down the street that the field was on, it became apparent that this was gonna be a close one. Conditions were deteriorating rapidly, even more so than usual (I blame Mom’s spaghetti). I had to cut a guy off to turn into the parking lot, because there were 5 more cars behind him, and Cinderella was already on her way to the ball. Unfortunately, the speed at which I hit the little dip at the entrance caused much bouncing of the truck, which didn’t help matters. I let out a panicked moan as we bounced, trying to convince myself this was just a dream and I would wake up any second. This induced much laughter from Dave, which was very rude considering this clearly was no laughing matter. 

I pulled into my parking spot and jumped out of the truck. Dave asked me what I needed him to carry and I shouted “Don’t worry about it, I’ll come back and get it!” as I started to run toward Sanctuary. He called something else out to me, some question, but I didn’t pay attention, for I had more serious matters to attend to. I was in my baseball pants and my shirt, with just socks on my feet (I usually put my cleats on in the truck when I get there). The bathroom is probably about 150 yards or so from where I was parked, and I was faced with a decision. Let me enlighten you on one of the more advanced strategies of not crapping your pants. You see, the faster you move, the faster the crap builds toward the inevitable explosion, so you can’t just go with all-out speed. But if you go too slow, then it takes too long to get to the bathroom anyway so you can’t win there, either. You have to find the right balance, the happy medium, where you are moving fast enough to beat the dinner rush but not so fast that lunch is being served (in your pants) when you get there. So I settled into a brisk jog, one that I thought would be just right. About fifty yards from the bathroom, though, I realized I had misjudged. I’m still not sure if I had gone too fast or too slow, but at that moment I knew it was time to put the pedal to the metal. I’m pretty sure I broke the sound-barrier those last 50 yards, but I would soon find out that it wasn’t enough, as I was about to break various other barriers that should never be broken.

As I burst through the bathroom door, things were beginning to take place. I’m not talking about a prairie dog poking its head out, for prairie dogs are fairly solid creatures. This was something far more sinister, although similar to a prairie dog in that both are things you NEVER want springing forth from your anus. As I got in the stall, I was trying to unsnap my pants but I couldn’t get them. Part of it was because I was contorting my torso in unnatural ways to try to stop the flow of diarrhea and/or time itself, and partly due to sheer panic because things were literally beginning to spew forth from me already. When I stopped and relaxed long enough to concentrate on getting my pants undone, it set a turn of events in motion that could no longer be stopped. The instant I got my pants unsnapped, all crap broke loose into my draws. Oh sure, I pulled my pants down quickly and tried to sit on the toilet, but by then shrapnel had already filled the stall, some on the floor but most all over the toilet. To borrow a term from Eric, it was liquid evil. And yes, it all happened so fast, within a second or so, that I basically sat right down in it on the seat, too.

Life’s kinda funny, though. Normally you think about sitting down bare-butted in a puddle of your crap, and you think “gross” or something along those lines. But in the heat of battle, you’re just relieved that it didn’t ALL end up in your pants. The moment I hit that toilet I had a feeling of pure bliss. I looked down at my undies and knew right away that they could not be saved, for they had made the ultimate sacrifice. I sat there and began planning the proper funeral and burial, one with full military honors, and the awarding of the purple heart. Then, I simplified it and starting planning how to get them to the trash can without anyone seeing my carrying them.

I got up, took my pants completely off, and started cleaning what I could. This was an uphill battle, to be sure. After all, how do you clean up when you just took The Crap That Dare Not Speak Its Name all over the place? I did my best though. This included flushing the toilet, wiping certain things including but not limited to my freshly-primered butt-cheeks, flushing again, rinsing and repeating, etc. As I was anxiously engaged in this good cause, some guy came in to take a whiz at the urinal next to my stall. When I first heard the door open I quickly stood in position as though I was just sitting on the toilet, hoping he wouldn’t see my feet there with just socks but no shoes or pants around the ankles or anything else. A small part of me also hoped he wouldn’t see any of the crap on the floor next to my feet. When he finally left I put my pants on and exited the stall, undies folded carefully in my hand. Of course someone else came in right then, and I had to hide those brave little troopers behind my back as I walked past him to the trash. I dispensed with them and then washed and dried my hands, making sure to use about a billion paper towels so I could give Private Brown 1st Class a proper burial in a (hopefully) unmarked grave.

Upon return to the field, Dave had kindly carried all my stuff to the dugout, which I thanked him for, then informed him of the sad news. Cousin Nathan walked up right then too, so he got to hear about it. Dave found it funny, but for some reason was trying not to laugh for fear of being rude. Nathan looked at me with the proper disgust, then asked which stall I had been in, for he was about to embark on a similar mission and didn’t want to unwittingly find himself behind enemy lines in that war-torn land.

All in all it was a good game, we won a low-scoring affair 12-8. But on a day like that, we are all winners.