5 Things to Remember When Someone Defecates in Your Room
I met Bed Farter during the Blizzard of 2011. It was a textbook display of romance, straight out of Casablanca. I was in the middle of guzzling down a Shark Bowl, when, in my peripherals, I see this little brunette number approaching. She hadn’t noticed, or maybe she just didn’t care, that I had drank myself into Million Dollar Baby territory, just waiting for someone to pull the plug on my evening. Flirtatiously leaning into me, Bed Farter gives me the once-over and says, “You look like a sarcastic asshole.” I retort, “Yeah, I’m trying to give off that ‘Shoot up a high school’ vibe.”
So, St. Paddy’s Day of that year rolls around, and I decide to call the girl saved in my phone as “Columbine Joke.” We end up in my loft. About 20 minutes into carnality, she pushes me off of her.
“Um, babe…what’s that smell?”
Now, playing a game of “Where’d Waldo Defecate Himself?” isn’t my idea of foreplay, but shit happens.
Turns out, the source of the pungency was a ball of human shit. It was lying underneath my coffee table, wrapped in a thong, and floating in a sea of urine. This rectal softball was 4-inches round in deliberate circumference. Someone could have placed it on top of a statute of Atlases, and tourists would not have blinked twice. This was no accident; this was an act of war.
That’s why I’m here. I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with poop bandits. If you ever have a Close Encounter of the Turd Kind, here are 5 things to help get you through life when shit hits the fan.
1. Evacuate Your Room
The last thing you want is for people to see you vomit. Surrender is for weak-stomached freshmen and the French. However, those who procrastinate in times of emergency are doomed. You need a course of swift action. Just look at those dipshits in New Orleans. When someone leaves a log in your room, you must channel your anti-Mayor Nagin. It is your duty to evacuate the room that has become your Chocolate City.
2. You Need A Cover-up
Even though I removed the shitball, its perfume continued to linger for days. Eventually, the aroma spread to the hallways. It was horrid. The dirty looks I received from the brothers almost made gags on the faces of those doing the walk of shame seem not as fucking hilarious…almost. You can’t just tell people why your room smells like a Planned Parenthood trash bin, either. Blaming the odor on hockey equipment, Sperrys, or a pledge’s face is essential. Remember the old adulterer’s standby: lie, deny, counter-accuse.
3. The Smell is NOT Stuck in Your Walls
This SHOULD go without saying, but it doesn’t, because men, especially me, are fucking retards. After a sleepless, sexless week of living in a 20-by-20 port-o-john, I decided enough was enough. No remnants of someone’s colon were anywhere to be seen. “Ah-hah! The odor must be somehow magically attached to the walls!,” I thought to myself. Goddamn fecal wizards and their shenaniganry. Naturally, upon this brilliant epiphany, I spent two hours safeguarding each inch of my walls with bleach and Lysol.
Needless to say, I will never get back those fruitlessly wasted two hours of my life. All it did was make the fragments of someone’s anus floating in the air smell like they were drunk on Lemon Pledge.
4. Don’t Invite Girls Over
Day 14 rolled around. I hadn’t felt vaginal warmth in two weeks. Anytime I gazed into a mirror, I understood what it meant to see a 1,000-yard stare. My face grew longer, grayer, Joe Lieberman-ier. Out of fear for both my sanity and my oversupplied prostate gland, I called up Bed Farter, promising her that the smell had finally been eradicated.
This damn floozie got to my room, took literally two steps inside of my door, and shielded her face like she was dating Chris Brown. “Just…no,” she said, fleeing. I made no effort to stop her.
Do you know how hard it is to masturbate when you can’t hear Jenna Haze’s moans over the sound of your own sobs? NOT VERY FUCKING HARD, BECAUSE YOU’RE FLACCID.
5. There is a Second Source
With Bed Farter gone, I desperately removed each piece of furniture from my room. As I lifted my couch, I saw it, attached to the leather – a second source of impeccably-spherical shit.
This is what I later deduced. Earlier on St. Paddy’s Day, some broad decided to get so drunk that her sorority sisters left her in my unlocked bedroom to pass out.
Belligerent and unattended to, this drunken fool makes a conscious decision to pull down her pants, take a dump in the middle of my fucking room, urinate, and ultimately covered herself in a frothy mix of bodily fluids.
Next, rather than feeling remorseful like a normal human being, this “adventurous spirit” decided to take off her undergarments, wrap them around the remnants of a colon beset by alcohol poisoning, and in her stage of blacked-out oblivion, formed a fucking geometrically perfect example of the theory of Pi and made an eight-inch ball of human shit.
THEN, as she caught a second breath of whore energy, and another round of crap was served upon my newly-installed wooden panel, she decided that she was going to make another dazzling perfect shitball, and hide it underneath my couch, as if she expected the Magical Poop Fairy to fly in from her Wonderful Castle of Feces, collect it, and put a quarter under her pillow as she slept.
So, the moral of the story, boys and girls, is yes, girls do shit.