When I read poop stories, I always wonder what the people who are telling them look like: Me? I am professional, attractive, and anal about hygiene. I have blond highlights, drive a baby blue VW beetle, and own a French bulldog named Coco Chanel. These stories can happen to pretty girls.
They can happen to anyone.
The following story happened to me last Thursday.
This particular day, my bosses treated the office to Chipotle. I ordered steak burrito, beans, and corn salsa. I don’t know why I love that corn salsa so much, but I do. This fact is germane to the story.
On this day, I went to watch a gig my in Carlsbad, which was forty minutes north of San Diego, because my friend was singing. I had my Frenchie with me because my workplace allows me to bring her to work each day (awesome). For dinner I had a salad, a beer, and a spicy appetizer with a friend, but felt no ill effects.
As soon as I got in the car to go home, however, I felt a little twinge in my stomach. Nothing major, so I naively passed all the restaurants, gas stations, etc., on my way out of Carlsbad. When I merged onto the black ribbon highway of I5, my stomach started to really give me the business. I was accosted with deep, crampy gassy pains in my lower stomach (you know the ones), but they were the kind that give you intense pain for a few minutes and then slowly start to dissipate, falsely leading you to believe you are in the clear and you just need to “hold on”. I honestly figured I was OK, and that I would survive the next half hour, until I was safely home in the sanctuary of my lovely white-tiled bathroom.
I was envisioning this oasis as I tried to take my mind off what was happening in my lower regions. I truly believed I would make it, and I just needed to man up and not be such a baby about a few mild stomach cramps.
I could not have been more wrong.
I was about ten minutes from home when I seriously panicked, realizing, “Wow, I really might not make it. I might soon be joining the camp of persons who have pooped their pants as adults.” The crampy spasms were no longer my greatest concern. For the most part, they were gone, but they had been replaced by something much, much worse. My load had down-shifted into what I like to call The Poop Waiting Room – that area in your bowels where the poop resides just before it births its way into the world.
My poop cervix was fully dilated to ten centimeters. The contractions were fast and furious. I could feel the poop baby squirming there, even, and lo, it was angry. It was a hot, burning pressure so intense that I couldn’t even fart for relief, because I knew it would instantly become a shart. I was baffled at the quickness with which my bowels had turned on me; it was almost as if I had been…poop-roofied or something.
I tried all the techniques: I turned on the air conditioning; I dug my fingernails into my palms; I prayed to God; I tried to readjust myself in my seat. But unfortunately, each movement threatened to release the poop hounds of Hell into my panties. My own hound slept peacefully on the seat next to me, and I cursed her silently.
For some odd reason, I could not bring myself to pull over to any one of the several gas stations off the freeway and relieve myself. I was averaging over eighty miles an hour on the mostly deserted late-night freeway, and maybe that was the reason I thought, “If I just drive a little faster, I will make it.”
Another reason I didn’t want to stop is that I wasn’t sure what the logistics would be of the potential gas station bathrooms that I may encounter. Would I need to ask for a key, or have to make a purchase? Nothing would be more embarrassing then pooping myself in front of some college-age gas station attendant as I struggled with my purse in order to buy a ninety-nine cent pack of gum.
I was experiencing a weird kind of paralysis, a kind of shit limbo. It seemed that as long as I was driving and sitting, I would be OK; but as soon as my rogue butthole got wind that I was close to a place where I could safely relieve myself, it would turn on me in a “close but no cigar, sucka!” kind of way. Would I end up driving all the way to the Tijuana border, just because I was too afraid to stop and jump into a bush?
Finally, the blissful view of my destination appeared on the horizon, which was good, because the already critical level of how badly I needed to poop had escalated to a Defecon Five situation. My bowels were a throbbing furious hurricane of shit cramps, and tears were leaking from the corners of my eyes. This couldn’t be happening to me – not to a clean, respectable, feminine, tax paying adult person.
As I turned off the freeway and up the main street leading to my neighborhood, I realized that I wasn’t going to make it.
There was a Chevron station to my left. As a last ditch effort, I quickly pulled in and eyed the bathroom area – The usually non-crowded bathroom area. And there was a line.
There was an actual motherfucking line.
Maybe it was this last bit of hope, vanquished, that instructed my brain to let my bowels loose, but before I could fully comprehend what was happening to me, I felt my hips shift upward and the hot mess squelched into my tiny lacy panties.
The world slowly washed away in a gray hazy fog of disbelief.
Did I mention I was not wearing pants? Oh no friends, I was wearing a work outfit of a black pencil skirt and heels. The horror.
To my utter dismay, the relief felt by my bowels was so overwhelming that they would not stop releasing their payload, and the floodgates opened. There was no stopping this hot mess. At first only semi-soft poop came out; but there was a horrible moment where I felt some very hot, very wet poop add itself to the mix, like a hot fudge topping on a nightmare ice cream sundae. Served in the hell that was now my underwear.
The worst part of driving home was that my Beetle is a stick shift, so every time I depressed the clutch to shift, I could feel poop pushing deeper into the seat and out of my panties, down my thighs and toward my knees. I cursed God. I cursed my skirt. I cursed Chipotle. I cursed every red light.
By the time I finally made it home, my inquisitive little bulldog had gotten a whiff of what Mama was cooking in her drawers, and was trying to wiggle into my lap to investigate. I wasn’t sure how to proceed inside my house. I was on the verge of tears. My pencil skirt only went a little past my knees, and I knew as soon as I stood up, shit was going to come cascading down my legs and onto the driveway. This was not to be avoided.
I jumped as far into the bushes that were next to my parking spot as I could, and I shook my ass a little to see if a majority of the soft wet poop would trickle out into the dirt. I had a beach towel in my trunk and I used it to wipe up what I could and then wrapped that around my waist like a toga. I was not thinking clearly. I also had to get my dog in the house, because the thought of her in the car – lapping up the feces that had trickled onto my leather seats while I cleaned up – was more than I could handle. Picture me hobbling up the walk to my apartment building with a beach towel toga, a French bulldog under one arm and little Hershey squirts slowly trickling down behind me, like a demented version of Hansel and Gretel.
Suffice to say, I took the hottest shower ever, scrubbing off at least one layer of skin. Like a ninja, I sneaked outside to clean my car (surprisingly not too be-fouled) and threw all evidence of the skirt disaster into the neighbor’s garbage.
It was without a doubt one of the most demoralizing and embarrassing situations of my entire life.
Somehow, the very worst part of this shitty story was watching the tiny kernels of corn from the Chipotle burrito from earlier that day slide off my legs in the shower, and swirl down into the dark abyss of my shower drain.
And yet, even worse than that was seeing this evidence on the sidewalk outside my apartment building the next morning. Luckily it would take an extremely discerning eye to see that the tiny dribbles of corny poop were leading from my car to the walkway.
Fuck you Chipotle. Never again.
Poop Report
