Have you ever pooped your pants?
Let me rephrase the question. Have you ever pooped your pants as an adult?
No? Congratulations, you must still have your gall bladder.
During the summer of 2004, I began experiencing pain in my upper-right abdominal area (right below my rib cage) and my gall bladder was eventually taken out. I’ve heard that this pain can mimic a heart attack, but that was not the case with me. In the middle of running at the local park, I had a sharp pain and collapsed to my knees, grabbing my side. I drove myself to the hospital where I was admitted and given every test known to man, even cardiac tests (because of family history).
I come from a long line of gall bladder-less people. Okay, the line is not that long: my grandmother, my mother, and me (that I know of, there could be more). You can safely place your wagers, because we are the trifecta of pants-shitting. Go ahead, laugh, but I will warn you that Karma is a bitch.
My Dad: Who’s Karma and what did she do to you?
You gall bladder-less people know exactly what I’m talking about. You eat certain foods and at a moment’s notice (usually not even that long), your eyeballs bulge from their sockets, sweat pops out on your forehead, and an “Uh Oh” leaks from your mouth as you scan for the nearest location to take the, “Cleveland Browns to the Super Bowl.” **wink**wink** This never happens when you are at home and the nearest throne is down the hall. Nope.
What really sucks is if you are on a road trip. That’s when Murphy’s Law kicks in: if there is a possibility that something will go wrong, rest assured it will. And you can bet that your shit-laden ass will be in the middle of nowhere where you can’t even locate the nearest outhouse. What do you do? Why, of course, you stop on the side of the road. With no toilet paper. There’s no drip-drying that crap either (no pun intended). You have to use a leaf and send up a prayer of hope that it’s not poison ivy. That’d really suck!
This has happened to me (not the poison ivy), because I’ve been so far up the middle of nowhere that they had to pipe in sunlight. The nearest location: a church. Sacrilegious, I know, but there was nowhere else to hide from oncoming traffic, and besides, when you gotta poop, the last thing you notice are your surroundings. The tears forming in your eyes pretty much block your vision. Now, don’t go and get your panties in a twist. I didn’t do it. I couldn’t do it with Jesus looking down on me, shaking his head, getting ready to put another ‘X’ by my name. Just the thought of it made the Cleveland Brown decide to wait it out for the next chance at the Super Bowl. Thank you for listening to my prayers, God.
But don’t think I travel lightly anymore. Open up my glove compartment and you will find baby wipes (don’t judge — they are moist and clean you as you wipe) and an extra pair of shorts (for summer) or pants (for winter). Don’t forget the plastic bag (no littering, please!) to deposit baby wipes into…and your newly christened britches.
Try walking through a department store. Inevitably, you’ll be in that far off aisle (the farthest away for any porcelain bowl) when the urge strikes. Try running to the bathroom when your ass cheeks are squeezed so tight that you almost fall flat on your face. After you fall, inevitably you poop your pants, and the manager calls for a, “clean-up in housewares, aisle 3. Bring the Febreeze, a hefty bag and a mop!”
That’s when you die of embarrassment and try to explain to anyone listening that you don’t have a gall bladder and shit happens (pun intended).
That reminds me: The Dallas Cowboys play the Cleveland Browns today.