If there’s a vice out there I fucking love it.
Tobacco? Yes I’ll have some of that please.
Gambling? Sign me up.
Heavy heroin usage? Well, we all have our limits.
Truth is, just a few short weeks ago I blogged about quitting smoking. I’ve since fallen off the no-smoking wagon, and while that’s not at all that exciting, the way I fell off the wagon is a tale of disgusting disgust filled with poop, shame and in a word, “poopshame.”
Last Friday, well last Thursday if you have to know the truth (you don’t), I fucked up. I purchased a pack of cigarettes and went to heaven because smoking is heaven if you’re a smoker. Its address is on a pretty little culdesac at 1 Smoky Lane, McSmokertown, USA. All smokers are welcome. The Jesus himself welcomes you back with a clean ashtray and a beautiful view to look at while you enjoy your smoke.
Let’s just leave the dirty, “I’m smoking again” details of my failure there. The point is — Friday morning I had cigarettes, glorious wonderful cigarettes just waiting to be smoked.
Dagmar left for work early so she can do her normal insane, bat-fuck-crazy-makes-you-feel-like-a-lazy-fucker exercise routine, and once she left all I could do was run outside like a little junkie and happily puff away on a cigarette because I suck and have no self-control.
(Stop judging me. Go read, www.judgeme.com if you want to do that shit. Pink-lunged Assholes!)
As I sat on the steps of my front porch sipping my coffee and happily puffing away my life I felt an urge many of us feel in the morning. A bit of gas, flatulence, the vapors — you know — a fart.
Of course I knew that after the cigarette I would have to go Number 2, but my mind was playing tricks on me.
“Hey buddy, we still have a few minutes, enjoy this. That’s not poop, its just gas. We’re alone, no one has to know,” my mind, heretofore known as “The Saboteur,” said. “Go ahead and cut one. Then you can finish your wonderful cigarette and cup of coffee and start your day. It will be magical. Its, after all, just a fart.”
So I happily lifted a butt cheek to aid in the process and continued my secret smoking there on the stoop.
But instead of the small, “pooft” I expected, what happened next was nothing less than a HAZMAT spill of epic proportion.
To be clear, this was not some inconsequential, oops. Nope. It was a “holy fuck I might have just stained the patio I’m sitting on, I must get inside and to a toilet right now,” moment.
We’ve all been there right?
Suddenly, I was in the throes of one of those moments when you’re not really in control of your body. My colon said, “Ha fuck you, I’m doing my own thing right now!” And from my backside spilled my poop-colored shame at a rate that could only be slowed by my hand. Jesus Christ! Where’s the Little Dutch Boy when you need him!
I was shitting myself, in case you didn’t get that. Shitting myself in such a manner that all I could do was sprint to the guest bathroom.
Like this only with more poop and shame. Mostly more shame.
I’m certain that I sprayed everything in the room. Even the ceiling was not immune from this unexpected eruption, and crap, literally “crap,” was everywhere. What happened to the floor? Answer: Crap happened.
I don’t know if you’ve ever been through a crap emergency like this or not. If not let me just say that once you’ve finished with the “business” of the situation, the cleanup of the crapterpiece you’ve left behind will, no shit, leave you saying, “Holy shit!”
Weird shit happens when you witness the birth of the universe during an epic dump. Something inside me said, “As long as we’re evacuating the bowels; let’s evacuate everything but our socks.” I had peeled away my now poop-shamed boxers and jeans, but oddly my shirt was also off, crumpled in the same heap of mother-of-disgusting-clothes altar I had created. When I came too I was wearing nothing but my socks. I don’t know why.
I found Jesus during the ordeal and abandoned him at the same time. I cried. I laughed. I pulled my hair in frustration.
It was epic.
It’s tough to come to terms with this sort of situation. One minute I’m having a normal cup of coffee and a cigarette on the front porch and the next I’m in a liquid-turd prison.
And, even after the emergency is over, I was still faced with the pile of clothes that now smell like shit. What do I do with those?
Wash them now, I thought. Hide the shame of this event from the wife, wipe everything down, leave no prints, douse it all with bleach and if necessary burn down the house. We must never allow the wife to know this happened, ever.
If I admit this happened to my wife, she’ll consider every fart from here on out suspect.
Seriously, from now ’til eternity, any time I fart, I’ll be grilled, “Did you just shit yourself?!?”
We were married (cough)-(cough) and (cough) (That many coughs would indicate a year in the hundreds, Todd. Did you mean to do that? I can honestly say, that’s an exaggeration. As for the rest of this, I highly doubt it. ~Fran) ((fuck you I’m smoking again remember, I can cough if I want to~~ HAFB)) (Todd, you seriously didn’t think you could interject a comment here, italicize it like you’re the editor or something, and it would go unnoticed and unaswered? I’ll misspell all your shit ~ Fran) years ago and I will tell you this, on our honeymoon in Mexico, where I was bitten Montezuma’s revenge, I actually pooped the marital bed when I tried to fart. On our honey moon! Yeah I’m a romantic. This blunder resulted in no less than five years of every fart being questioned. Phppptttthhhh! Did you just shit yourself? Fthahhhhhty? Oh my god, check your underwear! Flttttthhhhhhht, I think you just pooped.
It was a nightmare I tell you, a five-year nightmare.
And that’s why I chose to wash my filthy duds before she came home. Avoiding the wife’s involvement in a sharting incident is always the better choice. You might have a different relationship and that’s great, but to me the choice is simple, take care of the issue!
So I picked up the mountain of crap-caked clothes and ran downstairs to toss it in the washing machine. Let me further set this scene for you: As I walk to the basement laundry room, my nearly nude body is still soiled, I am wearing only socks and I am holding a pile of befouled, disgusting, godforsaken shit rags.
I hit the light switch to the basement with no issue, stepped down the stairs to the basement hallway leading to the laundry room with no incidents. I turned the door latch to the laundry room with my elbow with ninja-like skill and, in socked foot, stepped into the laundry room.
There had been a terrific rainstorm the night before. I know this not because I’m a light sleeper — I could sleep though my own rape — but this storm woke me up.
What I didn’t know was the extent of how terrific it was until I stepped into an inch of viscous, blackened, mold-infested runoff from last night’s downpour. It smelled just as bad as the shit I was carrying.
What else do you do with something like this? I just said, FUCK IT, threw the clothes on the floor, stripped off my socks, and slowly backed out of the hellhole.
Already late for work, I showered with bleach and went downstairs into the cesspool of a laundry room with a plastic bag and tossed the entire filthy lot inside. One instance of illegal poop-clothes-dumping-in-a-dumpster-near-the-house later, I was free.