One Weekend I Shit My Pants In Canada
It was July 2000. I was at the end of taking antibiotics for strep throat, and was at the end of a weeklong improv class; there was a performance on Saturday night, and a brunch on Sunday morning. I had been staying in a local college dorm in Toronto. There were a bunch of us from the weeklong program staying there, and there were also a bunch of Canadian locals there too. I found myself hanging out with two Canadians named Patrick and Trevor during the down time. That last Saturday afternoon we went to the local Hooters restaurant with a bunch of other dudes. On the way, Patrick and I got a lift from another Canadian guy named Mike. Mike worked was in his 30s, divorced, and worked the line at a car factory. They both liked getting high, and at the time I was still experimenting. So we smoked up on the way to Hooters, we parked in a parking lot two blocks away, and walked towards Trevor’s flat, which was literally around the corner from Hooters. Patrick and I noticed Mike wasn’t with us; I turned and saw him standing outside the driver side door of his car with a confused look on his face. I went back to see what was up. He informed me that he locked his keys in the car. Since he worked at a car factory he knew how to open the door without a key, but needed my help. He pulled back the door from the window, had me hold it, and then stuck his hand inside and unlocked the door, keys in hand we went into Trevor’s flat to meet up with the other guys. Then off we were to the Hooters.
There was about a dozen or so guys in total at our table, and by this time I was really high, so I ordered a cheeseburger, and we all ordered Buffalo wings. Buffalo wings always sound like a good idea, and they absolutely tasted great. We lied and said that it was one of the guys birthday and got the waitress to do a jumping dance. Then I tried to lie and say that it was my birthday. The waitress turned to me and said, “Wasn’t one birthday dance based on a lie good enough for you?” I didn’t say a word. She found out that I lied. I wasn’t thinking clearly and couldn’t figure out how did she find out we lied and that I had lied to her? We got to the performance space early, and I layed down on the floor and passed out. I slept like a baby. The improv went pretty good, no blocking, and afterwards we proceeded to drink the Saturday night away.
I’m from NYC originally, and bars officially close her at 4am, but most are still serving until 5 or 6. At 1:58am I went to order another round, and the bartender huffed, looked at her watch and said, “It’s 1:58!” I looked at my watch and replied with, “Yes it is”. She served me my order, and went over to Patrick to inform him that the bartender was mean; he informed me that bars stop serving at 2am. We were going to go back to a guy’s apartment that we did improv with, and on the way everyone got really tired, so I just got in a cab and went to sleep in my dorm room bed.
I had forgotten to pack comfy shorts to sleep in, and July 2000 fell into the timeframe of when I never wore underwear so I sleeping naked that week. Even though it was summer, Toronto gets much colder at night than NYC does. There was no blanket, and I sure didn’t think to bring one up for a weeklong stay. All that I had to keep warm was a thin sheet and my towel, and each morning I would wake up around 6am shivering. That Sunday morning I had a different shiver. I was freezing cold, but also had knots in my stomach a bowel movement that needed to exit ASAP. I had wished that I was able to run to the bathroom, but I was naked, the floor was co-ed, there was also a youth hockey team on part of the floor, and the bathroom was on the complete opposite end of a long high-rise dormitory, so a run to the bathroom didn’t seem like it would have been a good thing.
I put a shirt and a pair of shorts on as quickly as I could. I didn’t even zip or button. I ran down the hall holding my shorts up, got to the unisex bathroom and blew up the toilet. I had at least half a dozen flushes of full bowls of shit. It wasn’t a full turd poop. It was a turd ball mixed in with ass juices, and it was tearing my bowels apart. I wiped my butt until there was nothing left to wipe, washed up and walked calmly back to my dorm room. I layed down and went back to sleep. I woke up somewhere around 9am, and had the same aches and pans in my intestines. I put on a shirt and ran down the hall to the bathrooms; which were no longer empty like they were at 6am. People were showering, in the toilet stalls, and brushing their teeth. I didn’t care who was around. I sat down and went to town again on that bowl. It was all the same. Just more turd balls and liquid ass juices. I was keeled over in pain. By the time I cleaned up and got back to the dorm room I needed to get ready for the big brunch with everyone that took part in the weeklong classes. I showered, brushed my teeth, put on jeans and headed over to the brunch.
A few of the people were missing from this brunch, particularly the guy and gal who had the late night drunken hook up, and few others that I was out with the night before. Throughout the brunch I kept getting bad cramps and had to go into the bathrooms that where in the main campus building. It was down two flights of stairs and near the cafeteria – not an ounce of privacy. I don’t recall how many times I got up to go and had the same thing happen, but it was at least a handful. I eventually pooped everything out, or so I thought. I had gotten up to go three times and had nothing but gases come out of my butt hole. I thought I had won the war.
After the brunch, I was going to the car with Canadian Mike, and a guy from Florida named Rob. Rob was going to be dropped off at the airport, and I was going to a BBQ at Mike’s house. On the way to the car I farted. I missed the shotgun call, and sat in the back passenger seat. As I sat down in the back, I felt a warm sensation on my right ankle. I immediately thought I was bleeding. I lifted my right pant leg and worriedly looked down at my leg, and a bird had somehow pooped on my ankle. I racked my brain trying to figure out how this happened and how I didn’t see the bird poop hit me. Once I realized that a bird could not have pooped on my ankle underneath my clothing, I was confused as to what was on my ankle. I could feel that it was warm on my skin, and went down for the sniff test. WE HAVE CONFIRMATION! It’s poop. But whose was it and how did it end up on my ankle?
Then the thought finally crossed my mind. I had somehow pooped my pants! I felt my butt over my pants, and felt that my ass was a complete swamp ass. Then the thought entered my mind that I’m in a car that has all of its windows closed and the AC on. The guys are sitting only two feet away, and I guessed they would eventually turn around and asked what smelled like shit in the car. I had to tell them. I had to embrace the shitting of my pants. It’s not as if I was the first man to ever crap his own pants before. This guy Anthony that worked in the same office as me was 35 years old, stepped off a LIRR train from his morning commute, farted, shit his pants, and had to call in sick – even though he really called in and he just stepped in and accidentally shit himself. My brother in law who was in his mid 30s bent over to pull the start plug on a lawnmower and shit himself in my sisters front yard. I knew I had nothing to be embarrassed about. I just leaned forward and said, “Hey guys, I don’t know how to tell you this so I’m just coming to come out with it. I think I just shit my pants.” Think? What’s that on you ankle, and what’s on your swamp ass? I totally shit myself. Mike and Rob said, “Oh hey, don’t worry. It happens all the time.” All the time? I know it can happen, but not all the time. Not even 10% of the people that I know have admitted to shitting themselves. Mike informed me that I could use his bathroom after we dropped off Rob at the airport.
I sat shotgun from the airport to Mike’s place. Mike was in the middle of a nasty divorce and was living in his friend’s basement. It was a big beautiful house that was home to Mike’s friend, the friend’s brother, and their dog. All three worked the line at the car factory. Mike brought me down to his basement apartment. I am about 5’11” in shoes, Mike was about the same height, and I had to duck down the entire time I was down there. He went into the bathroom and I could hear him cursing. He came out and said, “I’m out of toilet paper, but here’s a box of Kleenex, made in Canada.” This only contributed to the worsening of events to come. The box had about five tissues left, and it was the box that is about 4”x4”x1” deep. The entire box wouldn’t have been sufficient to clean my leg, swamp ass and whatever else was screwed up. I kindly accepted the box, entered the bathroom, and was finally able to see for myself what the damage was.
Turns out it could have been worse. Only my butt crack, and my right ankle had real pieces of shit that needed cleaning. I did the best that I could. In hindsight a shower or going back to the dorms to wallow in self-pity might have been better. I wet some tissues and tried to get it all, but I have major dingle berries. I exited out of the basement apartment and was finally able to meet everyone properly. There ended up being about 15 or so people at the BBQ. Good food, and good people. The only problem for me was that the dog kept going to sniff my ass and ankle. Besides myself, and Mike, the dog was the only being at the BBQ that new what happened to me. I didn’t want everyone to know my ass was still dirty, so I sat down on the porch my ass facing a corner that was impossible for the dog to sniff at. He did stay and constantly sniff my right ankle though, and I played it off by lots of petting and trying to make believe that I just made a new friend.
After the BBQ it was just Mike, his friend whose house it was, the dog, and myself. We then listened to the Flaming Lips and smoked up. We all began to get really paranoid. Mike’s friend kept thinking that I was making too much eye contact with his dog, Mike kept thinking that the F. Scott Fitzgerald (a big ship that sank in Lake Erie) was plucked out of the water by aliens, and I kept thinking that the Canadian Mounties were going to open up the porch door any minute arrest me, and have me deported for smoking weed.
Later on in the evening Mike drove me back to the campus, and I showered immediately. I walked down the road to a Tim Horton’s, had myself a poutin (French fries with cheese and gravy), and played the Spice Girls on the jukebox. All in all, it was a good day. The next day I hopped on Amtrak and I returned to NYC. When people would ask me how Toronto was, I always told them this story first. Never once was I embarrassed about it. I’ve crapped myself since, had a couple of missed calls, but this one, this one I will always remember with joy.
Update: In this link you will see the picture of the spot where the "fart" occured. It is the photo in the top left of the screen.