Shitting on my best friend's shirt

When I was in middle school, I lived in San Diego and had a small circle of friends. My main best friend was a kid named Nick. Nick and I did everything together. We went fishing in the local pond many times a week. We played with Legos and built tracks for our Hot Wheels out in the dirt of the backyard. The one thing we enjoyed the most was exploring the canyons behind his house. We would get on our bikes and just go.

I was in about eighth grade at the time this memorable shitty story happened. This is not a story I tell anyone. We were at his house eating some snacks before setting out on our planned journey of the canyon. My other friend Nick was there and so was the first Nick's brother Gregory. All four of us were about to set off when I asked Nick if I could borrow a shirt of his. I cannot recall now why exactly I needed to borrow one but he lent me one and off we went.

Right from the start I knew that something was brewing in my gut. After years of getting that feeling, I had grown accustomed to what the approaching storm felt like. It gave me a certain amount of time to head to the bathroom before gunfire came blazing out my ass. This particular time I payed little attention to it and it wasn't until we were many miles from his house that thunder began to really rumble. I can remember getting to the bottom of this trail and thinking about just how far back to the house we had before I could poop. At that time the urge was not red hot but the lights were on and beginning to flash with warning. We began to peddle back up the trail and being the good friend I was, told Nick about my situation and that I was going to need the bathroom pretty soon. He laughed at me saying poop. The urge grew stronger after I announced it. It was as if telling the Nicks and Gregory about it that made the poop deep in me feel okay with putting the pressure on.

We rode and I rode faster. All the while I was distancing myself from the rest. I was looking for possible spots to get out of the view of them so I could pull my shorts and underwear down and let it rip. I remember having the thought. Every warning light was flashing now and the siren was blaring that obnoxious tone, alerting all personnel to man their battle stations. I knew I had no control any longer. I had to shit and that was that. The only shelter I could find in that instance of deprivation was a small bush on the side of the trail. I had no care for the possible rattle snake hiding in the shade of the bush nor the fear of having someone else riding up and seeing me squatted over with a river of gurgling nasty rocketing out of me. Lets just say that if this bush was on fire, I surely would have extinguished it with a thick covering of fire retardant.

This was no parable. God hadn't struck this bush with fire for Moses to find. I had exploded the contents of my lower intestine all over it. The hatch door was blown from its hinges. I remember that Gregory was the first to find me. At that point I had already done the deed. The release of that kind of pressure puts a tear in your eye. Its been said that sneezing is 1/8 an orgasm. If this is accurate, releasing a fire hydrant of hazardous chemicals out your asshole must be ¼ an orgasm.

In my urgency of getting the underwear off, I failed to see that Nick's shirt had not made it clear of the splash zone. Nor had my shorts. Nor had my underwear. I had shit dripping from my friend's shirt and running down my legs and pooling in my underwear.

There are few things in this world that compare to my humiliation that day in the canyon many miles from civilized plumbing. Emerging from behind that bush to see both the Nicks there and watching the Nick that owned the shirt I was wearing go from red faced from the heat of peddling to the red face of anger that I ruined his shirt has forever been etched into my memory.

No way was he asking for that shirt back. No way was he ever letting me borrow anything every again. We rode the many miles back to his house. I rode in the back of the pack and did not sit down the whole ride back. I was numb to the world around me. No way had that seriously just happened. No way did I just shit all over myself. I remember getting back to his house and offering my apologizes once more about the shirt. His only words to me were to put the shit shirt in the dirty pile of clothes for his mother to wash.

Now that would be some real honest information right there to have on a dating website profile of myself. It would come with a cautionary warning label that reads “Do not feed wild animal dairy products. Liquid poop will happen and it's very messy to clean up.”

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