I Shit My Pants On The Subway

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As Mike Tyson once said, “Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the face.” Or, better yet, until they drop a deuce in their pants on a Manhattan-bound 7 train heading to Grand Central Station.

I’m not a man who’s averse to crapping himself inappropriately. In fact, when I was a kid, this was something I did pretty often. Random stomach viruses were the fierce enemy of all my tight whities, and not wanting to get up from playing video games was my Waterloo. I don’t blame Nintendo for making me pinch a loaf — after all, they did put a pause button on the Nintendo 64 controller. But when you’re mounting a massive comeback on Rainbow Road at 150 CC to win the Special Cup, well, pinching a growler in your Jockeys is a small price to pay for eternal glory, isn’t it? I’d make that choice ten times out of ten to this very day.

As I got older, my opportunities to bust a grumpy in my corduroys were fewer and further between. I mean, it just wasn’t as socially appropriate anymore. With college applications and interviews, meetings with professors, small classroom settings, job interviews, meetings, and the occasional interaction with women, it just didn’t behoove me to blast a dookie in my pants. I had to practice constant vigilance, for even the slightest shart could derail my entire life.

To be fair, I doubt I’d be the first person to Hershey squirt myself out of my industry, but that’s beside the point.

But I grew up. I got my BMs in check. I learned that my underwear was no longer a proper dumpatorium, and that laying cable to build a poo cabin in my pants was NOT the way to get ahead in life. I’d take my Gas-X regularly to keep everything tight until it was about time to drop the kids off at the pool. I was responsible. I was prepared.

Then the bomb went off. The stinky, sloppy, squishy bomb.

Saturday was a day unlike any other. I got up early, got my favorite bagel and coffee from my local bagel place, and was ready to head over to this comedy writing class I’m taking, because as many of you commenters say, I’m not funny. I headed to the subway to pick up something from my office before class. I had to change subways because the main line wasn’t running due to construction. Annoying, but no big deal. I got off the N and transferred to the 7. Little did I know that 7 train would be my train of destiny — or disaster.

As soon as we got underground, I felt a rumble in my stomach. This wasn’t completely unexpected, as I had just pounded a coffee to keep me awake. It passed. I thought nothing of it. Then it hit again, harder this time. I didn’t expect things to happen so quickly. Maybe it was the sushi I drunkenly consumed the night before, or maybe it was the everything bagel and schmear so dense and delicious that it would make even Moses himself weep, but things were heating up, and they showed no signs of stopping. The brownies were done baking and they were ready to come out of the oven.

“Please God,” I prayed through gritted teeth, as I white-knuckled the handlebars on the subway. “Please don’t let me soil myself on this damned 7 train.” I tried to force myself to fart so I could relieve myself of some of the gas, but the relief never came. IT NEVER CAME.

I was doubled over in pain, sweating like David Wells on an elliptical. My ass cheeks were clenched so tightly that if I still had a girlfriend, I could have turned coal into an ass-diamond and given it to her for Hanukkah. Maybe I’ll still do that as a gag. (Note to self: shit-covered diamonds.)

I thought we would stay underground forever, that we’d never get to the next stop, where I could evacuate my bowels and probably contracts syphilis from the toilet. Other passengers looked at me like a man possessed. Someone even tried to give me pocket change. Then, all of a sudden, I saw the light of the rapidly approaching Grand Central Station.

But it was too late. The sound of the wettest, gaseous discharge you’ve ever heard in your life pierced the air, landing on the back of my boxer briefs with a muffled “FWUMPPP.” Mission: Failed.

I SPRINTED off the subway and ran for the bathroom. Port Authority and NYPD officers looked at me funny while I waddled to the bathroom, concealing a small, shameful load in my pants from New York’s finest. I made it to the bathroom, set down some toilet paper, and barely had my ass to the seat before I unleashed the loosest, unholiest kraken ever conceived by man or animal. It was agony, pure and simple. My body shook like a heroin addict going through withdrawal. I prayed to every deity I knew to make it stop: Moses, Buddha, Jesus, John Travolta, the Spaghetti Monster, Morgan Freeman in “Bruce Almighty.”

Finally, the pain stopped and my stomach became an ocean of calm once more, not caring what it had done to my boxer briefs or my dignity. I tried to assess the damage and realized that I may have won a battle, but I ultimately lost the war: I made it to the toilet, but my underpants wouldn’t make any more of the journey.

As I discarded my underwear in the garbage can and said a prayer of mourning, I shared a glance with a homeless man cleaning himself in one of the sinks at the Grand Central bathroom. Pretty sure even he was disgusted by me; a man taking a bath in a sink at a train station watched me hobble out of a bathroom stall and throw tarnished undergarments into a trash bin. Perhaps he knew my pain or maybe he was judging me, his eyes piercing me down to my skidmarked soul.

I shit my pants at 24 years old, on a New York City subway, three days into 2015. I’m not proud of myself. I don’t write this to glorify my actions — I come to bury my soiled Calvin Kleins, and maybe even a small part of my dignity that’s passed on to the next world via sewage pipes.

I took the Browns to the Super Bowl a little too early. As I found my spare pants in my office and changed into them, I felt like I had shed my skin. I felt reborn, like a new man, unafraid of what the world might throw at me. No matter how bad this year gets, it can’t possibly be worse than making mookie stinks in my pants on the 7 train, right?

Next time I’ll try to take care of business before I leave my apartment. Happy fucking New Year.

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