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This is classic! So damn funny

http://postgradproblems.com/i-[bleep]-my-pants-on-friday/

My name is Dillon Cheverere. By nearly every definition, I am an adult. On Friday, July 19, at approximately 1:30pm CST, I [bleep] my pants.

To squash any preemptive confusion, this wasn�t a metaphorical [bleep]. I�m not using �[bleep] my pants� in the same fashion one might use �drop the ball� or �let one get away,� as if to suggest I let a situation get the best of me. I mean that I very literally defecated in my pants.



There is really only one excusable time for adults to [bleep] themselves, or [bleep] outside. This one excusable time is when he or she is somewhere without access to a restroom � on a road trip, a ski lift, a nature hike, a ferris wheel, etc., when emergency strikes. When your stomach starts to rumble something serious, and you know you have just a couple minutes until it�s go time, you have GOT to be within 30 paces of a toilet. Because it hits swiftly, and it hits hard.

I�ve [bleep] my pants twice since reaching the age when it is no longer socially acceptable. The first time was when I was 14 years old. My father and I joined a 5-day floating excursion down the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon. The land inside the Grand Canyon is a preserved area. One regulation we had to obey was all solid waste, human or otherwise, could not be left behind. Yes, that included our [bleep]. Each of our rafts was equipped with a 3 x 3 x 3 metal box with a toilet seat on top, and handles on either side. At each stop, we would carry this box to a private location nearby on land, and it became our makeshift restroom. We [bleep] in the box, then we had to take it with us when we left. It was nasty. You�d look down inside this thing, and all you saw was a big pile of human [bleep].

After a stop on land one day for a quick bite to eat, we set off again down the river. Two minutes after departure, my stomach gave me a �Bro, I�m not crazy about what you just ate, so I�m about to get rid of it. Like right now. Holler atcha boy.� I warned our tour leader that I was about to evacuate. �I need the box,� I whined. He responded by telling me we were still hours from our next stop. I was seconds from [bleep], though, a message that, at 14 years of age, I was apprehensive to relay to him in front of our entire group. I was mortified. Then, I shat. In my swim trunks. I freaked out, and fearing my raft compadres catching wind of my [bleep] drawers, I rolled backwards off the side of the boat like a seasoned scuba diver atop the Great Barrier Reef. It was a beautiful maneuver. They just assumed I clumsily fell off. Crisis mostly averted.

That was the last time I had an emergency [bleep] while stuck in an unfortunate, toilet-less situation. Then, it happened again on Friday.

The next rumble was my stomach�s Mortal Kombat �Finish Him� move. It was violent. It would end me.



I was on my way to Houston from Austin for an annual man trip � golf, Stros game, bar hopping, just typical guy stuff. We took Highway 71 to I-10. I was with three of my boys in my friend�s black Ford F-150. I sat in the back left seat. No chicks, which, after what was about to happen to me, turned out to be even more of a blessing than I originally anticipated. We stopped in the small town of Smithville at a place called Zimmerhanzel�s BBQ. None of us had tried it before, but since the place made Texas Monthly�s Top 50 Barbecue Joints list, a list many of us Texans pay close attention to, we figured it was definitely worth the stop. I got the chopped beef sandwich with a side of potato salad. It tasted fine. We went on our way.

The first stomach cramp set in about 20 minutes down the road. It hit sharply, but briefly. I chalked it up as an aberration. The next one came about one minute later, this one just as sharp, but lasted a solid seven to ten seconds. It was alarming. �Is that barbecue not sitting well with anyone else?� I asked calmly. I was answered with laughter. It wasn�t funny. �Whenever you have a chance to stop at a gas station, please do so. I need to use the restroom,� I continued. More laughter followed. It still wasn�t [bleep] funny. �Dude, we�re 15 miles from the next stop. You�re gonna have to hold it,� my friend informed me while driving.

The next rumble was my stomach�s Mortal Kombat �Finish Him� move. It was violent. It would end me. I had 45 seconds, tops, until I was amidst full release. �Pull over right now! I�m literally about to [bleep] on your seat,� I said sternly. Laughter erupted. They thought I was joking. I was not joking. I was literally about to [bleep] on his seat. �Pull over right [bleep] now! It�s starting to come out!� I yelled while clinching my cheeks together with all the strength I could muster. It was starting to come out. I could feel it. There are very few feelings in this world worse than the sensation of [bleep] leaving your body while you�re fully clothed. They then knew I was serious, which resulted in even more laughter. I tried this thing where I lifted my torso off the seat with my hands for maximum clinching ability, sort of like an inverted plank maneuver. It helped for about two seconds, but ultimately proved futile. I kept [bleep]. Then finally, the truck was pulled onto the shoulder.

If I had chosen option A, I would have brown eyed approximately 5,000 eastbound onlookers.



While overcome by sheer panic, I scrambled for the door handle, exited the truck, then ran around to the passenger side while simultaneously undoing my pants, all the while [bleep] is sputtering out of me like water through a kinked-up water hose. This is when I had a huge decision to make regarding where I would complete the task at hand. I could either: A) drop trou right next to the truck and use it for coverage, or B) I could run across the adjacent access road and try to find some cover along the fence line, which was a good 100 feet from the shoulder of the highway. Quick side note here: I-10 is a really [bleep] busy highway. I first thought the truck would provide me sufficient cover from the passersby. It was not so. If I had chosen option A, I would have brown eyed approximately 5,000 eastbound onlookers. That�s not a good look. Option B would was least [bleep] of the two [bleep] options.

Like a penguin taking its first baby steps, I waddled across the grass, the access road, then more grass until I was at the barbed wire fence line � with clinched butt cheeks and a messy [bleep]. If the fence wasn�t seven feet tall (or if [bleep] wasn�t erupting from an orifice in body) I would have attempted to climb it in search of adequate cover. [bleep] it, I thought. This�ll have to do. I dropped my shorts, squatted, then I released what was left in me. A brief moment of unbridled elation was interrupted with the sudden realization that I had nothing in the way of cleanup supplies. I had no toilet paper, no napkins, not even a Zimmerhanzel�s receipt to wipe with. I remembered my back seat mate had picked up a newspaper at Zimmerhanzel�s and brought it with him. While squatting over my liquid pile of [bleep], I motioned for someone in the truck to take a break from their hysterics to help a brother out and bring me the newspaper. Like a knight in shining armor, my buddy came through.



The newspaper was a bout five pages thick. I would need all of it. It was still insufficient. I cleaned up as best I could, which was not good enough, or even close to good enough. Imagine cleaning a shoe caked in mud with a single cotton ball. I was ill-equipped to say the least.

I was in full Pooh Bear at this time�

I then had to ditch my underwear: blue Hanes boxer briefs. I liked those briefs, but considering that the inside of them looked like the result of a school-wide food fight on chocolate pudding day, I had to leave them at the scene of the crime. I took them off and left them on the ground after slipping them over my shoes. I was in full Pooh Bear at this time (�Pooh Bear� is a term used to describe someone who is wearing only a shirt, ie. naked from the waist down) while hundreds of cars were screaming by. Did a few of them catch a quick glimpse of my meat n� potatoes? You [bleep] bet they did. Did I care? You [bleep] bet I didn�t.

I quickly threw my shorts back on and crept back across the access road and to the truck. �Worst day of my life,� I said, muffled by the continued laughter of my three friends. �Get me to a restroom. [bleep] is everywhere.�

We found a Shell station 15 miles down the road. I went inside to assess the damage. It was uglier than I thought. My buddy had joined me, as he needed to take a piss. �Listen man, you�ve got to bring me a fresh pair of drawers. They�re in my bag. Be a pal,� I pleaded. I thought my boxers contained all the [bleep], but I�d never been more wrong in my life. It looked like Woodstock �99 in there.

Zimmerhanzel�s BBQ, guys. Remember the name.

BTDT

I've left a stinky shirt sleeve along the way.

My system isn't that finicky. It takes a deliberate attempt on my part.

But past age 50 or so, you can't trust a fart.

No comment. lol

Yep. I've cut a few strips out of a perfectly good Tshirt before...

Cotton thermal underwear makes the best tp, there's been a few trips when I came back with a pair with one leg shorter than the other.

The hood from a sweatshirt works well, too., but it's pretty dicey trying to cut it free from around your neck with a fixed blade knife while leaning back against a tree and hovering over a still-steaming special delivery without cutting your own throat.

i had just finished using a perfectly good flannel shirt early one morning on a Budweiser [bleep], when out walked a little 8 point buck at about 430yrds. shot it with my drawers around my ankles using a 243, probably one of my best shots to date.

Shi+ing the pants....

I call that a "wardrobe malfunction."

I ate Army food for four years, my guts can take just about anything.

Once here Drum. I was watching a spring seep on a ridge above a creek in Sept elk archery having walked in on a couple miles on a closed logging road before daylight.

About 10 the thermals tuned along with my bowls. I tuffed it out a while before heading down the ridge to the on road and needed to make it about 500 yards down the road to where it crossed black creek, so the cool would keep the scent from being lifted up the ridge where the elk bedded.

When I got to the road I prayed I would make it to the creek before I crapped my pants. Well, I did.

You can't imagine how cold it is washing your rear and pants while standing in knee deep water at 10,500 ft in mid September in a spring fed creek.

Absolutely.

On a side note, when RipTide was a toddler, he asked me often why I always carried a pocket knife.

Then one day when he was 5 or 6 years old, he shat himself in an office depot.

I took him to the restroom to help him get cleaned up, and as he sat on the commode, I cut his underwear off so he wouldn't have to pull his feet through them.

I hadn't said anything, but after I "rescued" him from a pair of doody drawers, he said "I know why you always carry a knife now, daddy"

We got a good laugh out of that, and still do whenever we remember it.

And people say a .243 ain't worth a sh*t...

Like my son says the only way that story could be any better is if you would have said and then I looked down and found a ten dollar bill. lol
whelennut

Hasn't happened yet, thankfully, but its been a near thing more than once. I am quite an accomplished roadside sh*tter, I can spot a suitable clump of brush from 500 yards. I've also learned(mostly) when my guts are bluffing, and when they are in full attack mode. When the sweat starts popping out on your forehead, its go time! Socks have been sacrificed in the past, nowdays I usually have a roll in the vehicle somewhere.

Was leaning against a recently removed mangled up culvert when amidst the ocean of wheat stubble before me, I see something moving. I'm 25yds from the truck and so do the pants-around-my-ankles-chinaman-shuffle, nab my 223 Montana, shuffle back to the twisted up culvert because it's the next best rest to the pickup window and I'm not remotely clean enough to climb into the truck for this. It's a badger and I guess the range @ 300yds, adjust accordingly, fire, nope, fire again, and see the dust fly low, out of ammo in the rifle. Shuffle back to the truck, grab my 270 AND the Geovids this time, 394yds. Dial 400 on the elevation turret, hold the upwind edge of the hole-digger and cut loose. When I recover from recoil all I can see is a paw and claws from what it obviously a badger laying on it's back. I cleaned up and retrieved the badger. I don't recall which is which, I got them both on the same trip.

Year before last my father, uncle and a friend of ours went to new foundland moose hunting. My uncle had the bad belly blues all week, sick as a dog. We had a great week, ate like kings, drank like fish. On the last day, we headed out of camp on a seven mile ride that took near two hours due to terrain. 30 minutes outta camp my uncle declared we better stop or there was gonna be a problem. Now this part of the island hasn't a shrub more than three feet tall for miles and miles. But there is lots of what the guides called "tuck", ie overgrown juniper. So...uncle bob heads out into the tuck to do his business, climbing into a pile of tuck to try and hide himself. As if.... Well apparently in the haze of panic he'd crap himself, he apparently stepped on a tuck limb, pinning it to the ground. It just so happened the majority of his deposit landed on the end of the same limb. After he was done he looked up to notice all of us watching. He smiles, gives the thumbs up and takes a step forward. In that moment he unleashed what I hope is the only crap catapult in history. Needless to say, he wore all he just dropped. Up the back and all over him. Cleaning up the best he could, we finished our ride out, got to our vehicle and headed toward the ferry. All the time he was begging me to find a restroom for him to clean up in. First stream we crossed on the transcontinental highway, I pulled over. That man stripped to bare ass naked and sat in that icy stream washing himself in plain sight of the biggest highway on the island. Every trucker on the way by gave him a thumbs up. Best part of the entire trip

Come home many a time with one sock.