It all began the night before. It was the start of December, which meant our fraternity held its annual tacky christmas sweater party. Overcome with holiday cheer, I purchased a handle of alcoholic egg nog for the occasion. The milky alcoholic beverage coupled with the thrashing of my pelvic region to Lil Jon’s provocative hit “Get Low” stirred up something fierce in my lower abdomen: a poop milkshake ready to blow the lid off my body’s blender.
The following morning, the ghastly concoction rumbling inside of me knocked on the back door during a final exam for my General Sciences class. It was one of those basic courses you take during your first few semesters of college that broadly covers a certain topic — one that squeezes hundreds of students from all areas of study into a lecture hall. I politely raised my hand to excuse myself. I rarely went to this class, but when I did, I always made sure to sit next to this painfully cute half-Asian chick, who noticed my hand was raised and looked at me. I gave her a half-hearted smile back. The teacher called on me.
“May I please go to the bathroom?”
He straightened his brow. The teacher had explicitly stated at the beginning of the semester that bathroom breaks during exams were forbidden. Apparently, two students in the semester prior had excused themselves to take a leak, only to be found by the professor sitting on the bathroom floor exchanging answers. I pleaded for him to make an exception. No dice. I then tried to explain the severity of my situation in further detail.
“Please sir, last night was egg nog night.”
The cute girl next to me giggled. The professor extended an offer: I could go to the bathroom, but only if I took a 15% penalty from my final exam score. It was an offer I had to refuse. I had a “D” after a lackluster performance all semester. I didn’t study for the final (like I said, I was too busy getting down to some Lil Jon), and needed all the help I could get to pull of a “C” and avoid being forced to take the class again over the summer — a consequence that would mean no Bonnaroo for me.
My stomach grumbled.
Trapped in the classroom, I decided to focus on the science test. Maybe I could bury the burning desire to poop if I just focused on the questions instead.
My stomach grumbled louder.
Science test. OK. Let’s just focus on the science test. Focusing on the test. Here we go. Deep breath. Deeeep breath.
I read the next question.
“What dangers does human waste pose to the environment?”
My stomach lurched. Fuck it, we’ll skip that one. Next question.
“What elements make up the gaseous planet, Uranus?”
Skip that one, too.
“What is the primary function of the ozone layer?”
This one should be okay. Let’s see the answers.
A) To absorb ultraviolet radiation from the sun, protecting the earth from its harmful effects.
B) To prevent noxious fumes from escaping the earth and poisoning surrounding atmospheres.
C) To prevent noxious fumes from escaping your butthole.
D) Poopy poop pooooooop pooo.
E) YOU GOTTA TAKE A SHIT, BITCH!
I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to relieve some tension. I lifted my right cheek to fart without making too much of a sound. It felt nice. The pressure against my colon seemed to have been lifted. As I planted my buttocks back on the seat, however, something was off. It felt wet. Sticky. I shifted my ass in the seat and felt something rolling around against my crack. It was at that moment I realized: I just shit myself in class. In a lecture hall. In front of hundreds of fellow students.
A wave of panic washed over me. My mind raced. How was I going to get out of this? Will my credits transfer to another school? Why didn’t I just study last night instead of getting down to Lil Jon? Why oh fucking why did I wear white pants today? I sat in my own stew, crippled with fear and uncertainty.
I took another deep breath and began weighing my options. Initially, I thought about sitting and waiting until the end of class. That way, only the two-dozen or so stragglers still taking the test would see the brown stain covering the backside of my stark white Dockers shorts. But that wouldn’t do. The rotten smell of digested nog had already greeted my nostrils. It was only a matter of time before the fumes wafted from window to wall, till the poop drip down my balls.
To make matters worse, a build up of liquid started creeping down the side of my leg. Soon, the hundreds of peers around me, diligently pouring their knowledge of biology onto paper, would lay witness to a living, breathing, stinking example of the subject.
I had to get out of there…immediately.
I could just pull out my phone, I thought, and act like I received some sort of urgent message before sprinting the fuck out of there. But the boxer loaf hiding in my trousers was too large. If I stood up, there was a major possibility of it slipping out the bottom of my shorts and rolling onto the floor.
I looked down at my test, at my teacher in the front of the room, at the cute half-Asian to my side, then up to the heavens.
“Dear, sweet creator of the universe,” I pleaded under my breath, “I know I don’t talk to you as much as I should, and I’m sorry for that, but if you help me out this one time — just this once — I promise I’ll do better. I’ll go to church every Sunday. I’ll give all the beanie babies I planned on selling in 2030 to Toy For Tots. I’ll stop thinking about what the girl sitting next to me looks like naked, or at least try to.”
I sighed and began shuffling the test papers on my desk. Then, a question caught my eye.
“Which of the following effects on the human brain are responsible for causing seizures?”
A seizure! That was it! If there’s ever a time it’s acceptable to crap yourself in public, it’s if you’re under the age of four, over the age of 80, or suffer from severe epilepsy. I knew what I had to do next: fake a seizure. It was the only ticket out of this mess in my pants.
I rolled my eyes into the back of my head, threw myself into the aisle, and started flopping around like a fish out of water. I heard the startled gasps of my classmates. I continued the performance until the rushed footsteps of my professor halted beside me. I heard him swear under his breath, hurry away, and return with a towel, which he draped over the lower half of my floundering body. I ceased to vibrate, and the professor quickly escorted me out of the classroom.
After a quick visit to the student health center, I was granted a test make-up, which I was sure to study for. I aced it. The following summer at Bonnaroo, I heard a voice call out to me. It was the cute half-Asian girl. We talked for a while before she addressed the elephant in the room.
“It must be really hard to live with your condition. I think it’s super brave of you,” she said.
I looked up to the heavens and mouthed a “thank you” to the big man upstairs. Suddenly, my stomach growled. The quart of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food I downed earlier had just plummeted into my lower intestine. I glanced over at the port-a-john line, the end of which sprawled almost entirely out of sight.
I looked back at the cute half-Asian girl, rolled my eyes into the back of head, and threw myself to the ground..
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