The KFC Shit

The KFC Shit

Dillon’s recent column on the shame of a grown man who has just defecated in his own pants triggered a mild case of PTSD stemming from a similar event. Granted, the last time I shit myself was in college, which for some reason is slightly more acceptable, but that doesn’t make it any less hilarious. Let’s face it, self-deprecating humor is the best way to deal with living the life of a cubicle monkey. It eases the pain before that 12-gauge you bought during your last quarter-life crisis starts whispering to you in the night. This story is embarrassing, but fortunately I have no shame. I tell this story as a real person to other real people and I get away with it. Never grow up, folks.

It was nearing the end of the spring semester of my junior year of college, and my fraternity brothers and I were headed to Chicago to initiate our newest pledge class. Initiation is always scheduled for a Sunday late in the semester. Since it was a Sunday, every guy was in some state of sleep deprivation plus hangover. This combination makes for some strangely fun car rides, since everyone is either still drunk or super slap happy. One of my pledge brothers, who we will call Scott, had his mom’s Acura SUV for the weekend. It was one of the nicer rides in the house, so it was immediately conscripted for the road trip to initiation. The ride up was mostly uneventful aside from a stop at McDonald’s for a bunch of McChickens (enter, foreboding) and the usual fear for our lives while we drove through Gary, Indiana. We tried to pay the beastly tollbooth lady with Toblerones. It didn’t work.

All the brothers and pledges arrived more or less on time – an impressive feat. Everyone was in suits and ties to show some respect for the fact that the new little shits were about to gain some tiny modicum of respect. Initiation was at our national headquarters, so there was built-in time to kill for the guys to check out the place and see a bit of fraternity history before the initiation ritual. It was about ten minutes after arrival that the warning signs began to occur. First, I had a bit of queasiness, then the telltale apocalyptic rumble. I dashed to the woefully undersized bathroom and expelled as much molten ass fire as I could manage, but the good Lord was not smiling on me that day. When I felt as empty as I could get, I went downstairs for the ritual.

Without divulging too much about our ritual – and if you’ve deduced my house, you know what I’m talking about – there is a certain point where a brother is laying on a table covered with our flag. People think this is a funny job for some reason, and I was feeling better, so of course I volunteered. Bad fucking idea. Flag guy has to stay there unmoving for at least 20 minutes while a bunch of standard initiation bullshit is read to the new guys. Precisely 12 seconds after the reading began, my stomach growled audibly. I could hear the stifled laughs all around me as I realized the devil himself was trying to escape from my anus. I spent the longest 20 minutes of my life (up until that point) helplessly clenching, praying to whatever horrible God above that I wasn’t about to spray mustard gas all over my very nice suit and fraternity flag. I let out at least 12 audible wet farts throughout the whole thing. Everyone knew. Fuck my life.

Somehow I escaped after the flag portion, and spent the rest of the time until departure occupying that pitiful stall and committing hate crimes upon the National Throne. If you find that bathroom and listen closely during the full moon, the fraternity ghosts are still weeping softly over the punishment I inflicted on their domain. I thought I had escaped. I had a small racing stripe, but my pants were unharmed and the worst seemed to be over. I chugged a bottle of water and dragged my pathetic body into the back seat of Scott’s mom’s car, praying to make it home so I could drink a bottle of Pepto, lay in the shower, and cry a while.

It was not to be. We were flying down the highway at night in Gary (God, why did it have to be Gary?), literally the asshole of the Midwest, when vengeance came. There was no hope. At first I thought it would just be a big fart; a blessed, pressure-relieving fart that would signal the end of my pain. Again, it was not to be. The instant of relief was followed by horror as liquid shit escaped from my bowels like Andy Dufresne bursting into the rainstorm of freedom. I immediately did the crab maneuver, lifting up my ass and going straight as a board while shouting at Scott, “STOP NOW I SHIT MYSELF OH GOD FUCK FUCK FUCK!”

Scott made a beeline for the nearest exit and pulled into the first restaurant. KFC. In the middle of Gary. At night. I didn’t care. I bowled out of that car and half waddled, half dashed into the Colonel’s warm smiling embrace. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I could hear my pledge brothers shouting and yelling in disgust and glee. I ran inside to the bathroom, and of course there was tape across the door to the men’s room. CLOSED. Why me, God? At this point, my brain could not function, and I didn’t consider the women’s room. I was halfway back to the car in a haze of McShit and defeat when Scott ran up to me and yelled, “YOU GET THE FUCK BACK IN THERE AND GO TO THE WOMEN’S ROOM!”

So I did. Finally, sweet, sweet relief. I poured about eight gallons of hellfire into that ladies’ shitter. The worst was over and my underwear were definitely ruined. All of the fucks I had to give were long since exhausted, so I did the only thing that made sense: tossed my briefs, wiped until I was raw, and packed my butt crack full of TP. There would be no more unannounced evacuations if I had anything to say about it. I ignored whatever was going on with my suit pants. The dry cleaners would be dealing with that. I strolled out of the bathroom, made eye contact with a few frightening KFC patrons, and returned to the car. There I learned what my brothers had been yelling and pointing about: right in my seat, a nice wet sheen of something terrible. Resigned to my fate, I planted my ass right in that shit puddle and went into the fetal position.

Mother nature had one more thing in store for whatever karmic apocalypse I had built myself up to. Fifteen minutes later, doing 90 mph on the highway, the other end of my digestive tract decided to join the party. “I AM GOING TO PUKE,” I announced. We went from 90 in the fast lane to a dead stop on the other side of the highway in roughly two seconds. I lunged out of the car and blasted up another two pounds of stomach evil. GI tract successfully evacuated. We can go home now.

Dehydrated and defeated, Scott dropped me off at my apartment with my promise that I would sanitize his mom’s car like it was an Auschwitz shower. I went inside, dropped every article of clothing into a horrifying Satan pile, and spent the next several days in a fetal position in the shower. Yes, Scott ended up cleaning the car, because he had to return it before I returned to the state of a normally functional person. I was a horrifying asshole during college, but that’s one of the few things I truly feel bad about.

No shame.

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