Running Late

This morning I pooed my pants. The morning started like any Monday morning; overtired and overNintendoed, but then I had to poop. It was a doozy. When I was all done I tried to keep getting ready for work, but again I had to poop. It too was a doozy. I had a bit of a tummy ache but wrote it off as hunger. I didn’t even wonder. I got dressed, got my lunch, and got in the van. I drove about a hundred yards down the road, but then again I had to poop. I had to poop right now. I turned around as fast as I could and raced back home, but by the time I got to my driveway I was pooping. I poop-walked up the ramp, stripped off my pants, which were essentially a dirty diaper, and sat on the toilet for a while, contemplating what it means for a man of almost thirty to be pooing his pants on the way to work. I got in the shower. After my shower I re-dressed (in clean clothes) and carefully carried my pants, underoos, and socks, yes my socks, outside and hosed them off. That took a few minutes. Then I threw it all in the washing machine and left for work for the second time. By then I was already fifteen minutes late, so I called my boss.

“Hey Ted Nugent, I’m on my way, I’ll be right there. I pooed my pants.”

All I heard was laughter. When I got to work I explained what happened to more laughter, and then got working hoping I could put the whole mess behind me. That did not happen. It was a long morning. I pooped a lot, and was the butt of many jokes.

By lunchtime I was feeling a little better so I ate four pieces of pizza. That must have helped, because the rest of the day flew by without any frantic trips to the bathroom. I’m feeling even better now, so perhaps whatever was in me is now out of me. I just wish I knew what it was. There were more than a few questionable culinary adventures over the weekend. It could have been the hot chili stir-fry, the vegetable dumplings, the pork tacos, the 2 for 1 Ali Baba pizza (which was a rip-off by the way. I think that place is actually run by the forty thieves), or it could have been the chicken Subway I ate slowly over the course of eighteen hours while it sat out on the kitchen counter. Whatever it was, some doubt has been cast on my status as The Iron Stomach. It might take a little while to regain it fully, but really I just hope nobody finds out I pooed my pants.