You wake up in the middle of the night with the overwhelming sensation of floating. You are in a warm lake. Slowly, you open your eyes and try to swim. As you move your arms you gradually slip out of your dreamlike state and begin to gain awareness of your surroundings. You still think you are in some sort of warm ocean, but the presence of your bed beneath you makes this seem less and less likely as you slowly wake up. You move around. And then it hits you: you have shit yourself in your sleep. And not just any old Lincoln Log shit, no, this is a runny brown motor oil liquid explosion shit. “I could swear this shit wasn’t here when i went to bed!” you cry out. Instinctively, you reach your hand to the scene of the crime to ASSes the situation. As soon as your hand slides beneath your boxers you realize you have made a terrible miscalculation. You now have a shit covered hand as well as shitted in boxers.
For a moment, your instincts scream, “Just go back to sleep! It will all be ok when you wake up.” But experience in this sort of thing helps you realize the fallacy of this promise. With a sigh and a slosh you slide out of bed and walk to the bathroom, your thighs a bit more lubricated than usual as they chaffe together. You feel the warmth slowly gliding down your leg as you trudge the long road to the bathroom. At this point, your senses are completely awake and the smell of your midnight delivery seers your nostrils. Forcing back the urge to vomit you remove your boxers with shaking hands and flop onto the toilet. Half asleep, you consider your next move. With some effort, you push, thinking their may be more. But all that escapes is a weary fart, the last one to leave the party, all the other guests having already spilled into your boxers. You recall with a wistful sigh the day you bought those pink checkered boxers. They looked so fresh and proud in their 3 pack cardboard wrapper. So stiffly starched. So full of the promise that some day they may be pulled off from around your ankle by your own foot, to end up on the floor as a beautiful woman ravages your body with her mouth. This thought leads to an image of a beautiful woman ravaging your body in its present condition. Again, you nearly vomit. You never imagined your poor pink checkered boxers would end up like this... with a brown badge of shame slowly seeping in and spreading. They look so defeated; so shitty. Slowly, you pick yourself up from the toilett and wipe off your shit covered ass. A tragic case of too little too late. Looking around, you find your roommates shorts and put them on. “These should get me through the night” you think to yourself. In a flash of brilliance you draw a sinkful of warm water and toss in your defeated boxers. Perhaps they’ll live to fight another day now. Returning to bed, you console yourself with the thoguht that at least you didn’t shit right on the bed.
For a moment, your instincts scream, “Just go back to sleep! It will all be ok when you wake up.” But experience in this sort of thing helps you realize the fallacy of this promise. With a sigh and a slosh you slide out of bed and walk to the bathroom, your thighs a bit more lubricated than usual as they chaffe together. You feel the warmth slowly gliding down your leg as you trudge the long road to the bathroom. At this point, your senses are completely awake and the smell of your midnight delivery seers your nostrils. Forcing back the urge to vomit you remove your boxers with shaking hands and flop onto the toilet. Half asleep, you consider your next move. With some effort, you push, thinking their may be more. But all that escapes is a weary fart, the last one to leave the party, all the other guests having already spilled into your boxers. You recall with a wistful sigh the day you bought those pink checkered boxers. They looked so fresh and proud in their 3 pack cardboard wrapper. So stiffly starched. So full of the promise that some day they may be pulled off from around your ankle by your own foot, to end up on the floor as a beautiful woman ravages your body with her mouth. This thought leads to an image of a beautiful woman ravaging your body in its present condition. Again, you nearly vomit. You never imagined your poor pink checkered boxers would end up like this... with a brown badge of shame slowly seeping in and spreading. They look so defeated; so shitty. Slowly, you pick yourself up from the toilett and wipe off your shit covered ass. A tragic case of too little too late. Looking around, you find your roommates shorts and put them on. “These should get me through the night” you think to yourself. In a flash of brilliance you draw a sinkful of warm water and toss in your defeated boxers. Perhaps they’ll live to fight another day now. Returning to bed, you console yourself with the thoguht that at least you didn’t shit right on the bed.
When you awaken the next morning, you realize that you did, in fact, shit...right on the bed. Boxers could not contain this sort of explosion. Like the white elephant in a room, the brown stain on your white bedspread stares you in the eye, a shit-eating grin plastered on its face. You think back to a few days earlier when your friend had thrown some dirty clothes on your bed and you had shouted at him, “Get that shit off my bed!” How prophetic those words had been... And yesterday, when your roommate had again left the dishes lying out and you had thought to yourself, “I’m sick of this shit!” What an understatement....
Will your co-workers guess what happened to you? Will the stain come out? What of the stain to your pride? To your confidence in farting in public? Will you ever push hard to fart again without thoughts of that dreadful 4am swim coming flooding back to haunt you? Shit like that doesn’t just go away. Shit like that can bother you for awhile. It’s not the big shit that brings you down, its the little shit at 4am.
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