Chapter 33 – My Buddy’s Got a Real Shitty Reputation
Sometime around eight in the morning, one of the two middle-aged British hostel owners started pounding on the door to let us know that we were holding up the transit van to Vientiane on which we’d reserved seats. Following one too many forceful knocks, the balanced-in-place, off-the-hinges portal came tumbling inward as it had the day before, leaving the proprietor standing in the entranceway with mouth agape.
“What happened here?” he muttered while stepping in the room, dodging all the shattered bottles which, when organized like bowling pins just inside the door, had served as our makeshift alarm system the evening previous.
“Uh, we think someone tried to break in,” Tim suggested as we all frantically jammed our scattered belongings into our bags.
“Well…” he didn’t appear to buy what we were selling, “…did they take anything?”
“I think maybe some of my clothes are missing.”
The man stood there facing outward and scratching his head as he examined the totally fucked-up framing around the door. In the meantime, we’d nonverbally confirmed with one another that we’d all been finished packing our sacks and, with nods of the head, decided it was time for a swift group exit.
“Bye,” Tim said, “thanks for everything.”
“Yeah, thanks Neil,” Kathleen added as she stepped out into freedom.
“I’m Paul,” he mumbled while inspecting and tinkering with one of the mangled hinges, “Neil’s the other guy.”
Out in front, it appeared quite obvious that the shuttle awaiting us had been painfully overbooked which was something that we and all the other hungover river-revelers already crammed in there didn’t wanna deal with. Without enough room to stuff our bags in the back hatch, Kathleen and her belongings squeezed alongside some strangers just behind the driver while Tim and I each sat half-assed on the front passenger seat with our travel sacks wedged between our respective legs.
While hungover as shit, the bumpy bus ride on unpaved roads proved to be a nauseating nightmare. Each time we stopped at a little roadside restaurant or fruit market or whatever en route between Vang Vieng and Vientiane, I absolutely diarrhea-ed my fucking brains out. The fact that I managed to refrain from blasting as much “doo-doo feces” in the van’s interior as there’d been splattered on the walls, floor and ceiling of Michael Jackson’s jail cell was nothing short of miraculous.
Would Tim have forgiven me if I were to have unloaded a Tub-Girl-sized helping of liquid shit that pooled up in the seat we’d been sharing, covering his anus with my slop in the process? I’d like to think so. However, even if he couldn’t find it in his heart to let bygones be bygones and we never talked again, he’d always remember me as the guy who once shit his pants so bad that it leaked all over him when he was super hungover on a cramped-ass bus ride one day somewhere in Bumblefuck, Laos.
People have come and people have gone over the years and although many have slipped my mind, I feel that I’ll never forget the names or times – no matter how distant in the past – in which one of my peers had crapped and/or wet themselves in public. Having the stigma of being a pants-shitter – or the seemingly less contemptible pants-pisser – is a reputation that one can never fully live down.
For example, there was this one girl who pissed her pants during an eighth grade math test on which she remained totally focused despite the uber-distracting sound of the fire-hose caliber flow blasting from beneath her skirt and slamming against the plastic chair on which she sat. Catching the attention of everyone else in the room, the sound was so loud and the incident so interruptive that she was literally the only one still able to crunch numbers. As everybody near Ground Zero scooted away from the ever-growing puddle, the rest of the witnesses stared in her direction, blown away by how someone could concentrate on algebra while her bottom half continued to look and act like Old Faithful.
This painfully awkward moment went on until the substitute teacher we had that day tapped Mz. Pizz on the shoulder, advised her to put her pencil down and to take her sloppy act over to the washroom. No one I know has seen this girl since we were all fourteen but still to this day, her name remains synonymous with a pile of urine soaked textbooks, a trail of pissy footprints leading from her desk right out of the room and a little pool of pee left in the seat’s indentation which looked green because the chair had been blue.
Even my buddy Pete who in fifth grade had crapped his pants at a Blockbuster Video still gets shit for his slip-up. In his case, most unfortunately, not only did our buddy Cahill and his old man whose house Pete was supposed to sleep over at that night bear witness to this atrocity, but another group of our grade school peers who’d also been having a slumber party were there to see it all go down as well.
As you might imagine, the details of the rumor spread faster than a crack whore’s legs at the sight of a dimebag. By Monday at lunchtime, anyone could tell you how the cascade of soft-serve sludge began rolling down Pete’s thigh as he clenched the side of his pant leg trying in vain to stop it from leaking out the bottom of his shorts as well as how it began filling his sock and shoe while the shitty mess puddled up on the carpeted floor near the “New Release” section. My personal favorite part of the story is how Mr. Cahill, the responsible adult and real hero of the situation, made Pete stand alone at Blockbuster covered in his own mess while he drove home, set up a waterproof tarp in the back of his car and then returned to scoop The Soiled One before dropping him back off at his own house, no longer invited to the buddy-buddy film-watching sleepover.
Even though these incontinent individuals live with the scarlet letter, both of their events, as far as I know, were a one-time thing and had occurred way back at an age where it’s reasonably acceptable to fall victim to those sorts of accidents – albeit, an eighth-grade pants-pissing is pushing the envelope, we’ll let her slide on this one.
On the opposite end of the spectrum, however, sometime during his adolescence my buddy The Hoff had discovered a late-onset propensity for explosive diarrhea and subsequent pants-shitting every time excessive amounts of alcohol happened to enter his system which, to be fair, had been quite often. The Hoff’s uncanny knack for succumbing to uncontrollable bowel movements had indeed gotten him into some dire(ia) s(h)ituations over the years – all of which he handled in his own unique way.
One time, when drinking at a party in a house with several functioning toilets, The Hoff still managed to find these lavatories just a bit out of reach and could do nothing to contain the disaster brewing within. Post-poop, my man discreetly took his foul-smelling business to the bathroom he moments ago couldn’t get to and cleaned up his mess like a normal pants-shitting lowlife. However, instead of disposing of his boxers by placing them in the garbage or throwing them out the window to hide the embarrassing evidence, this kid’s distorted drunken reasoning lead him to hide the soiled undergarments in one of the kitchen cabinets to later be found by the parents of whomever had been hosting.
One time as an under-ager walking home from a neighborhood bar where he’d been drinking by virtue of his Shawn “The Heartbreak Kid” Michaels fake ID, BossMan once again could feel the urge coming on. Unlike the example previous where there’d been actual toilets to use, The Hoff this time managed to take control of the situation before letting loose in his pants. Positioning himself behind a garage in an alley somewhere between the bar and his house, my man blew his brown liquidy load all over the side of the white metallic overhead door, scraped his shithole as best he could using a cardboard box he’d found along the way and returned to the house of his parents to pass out. The following morning as this young stud slept, a message had been left on the family answering machine which said something along the lines of, “Hi, this message is for (The Hoff). If you want your wallet back, you can come over to my house at ‘123 Fake Street’ and clean off the shitty mess you left on the side of my garage…”
Of course, his wallet must’ve fallen out during the dumping which leaves no doubt in my mind that shit had gotten all over the thing. To think of my friend’s parents listening to that message and the awkward retrieval of his diarrhea-covered personal effects from the angry man whose garage he had to scrape his own feces off of brings a childish joy to my heart I haven’t felt since Christmas morning when I still believed in Santa. In spite of how awesome it was to hear this story from The Hoff the day after it’d happened, it can’t quite measure up to having witnessed one of his leaky backdoor blunders in person.
The incident to which I allude had taken place during the weekend of an annual August gathering known as the Edison Park Fest. Doing our best to ensure all members of our posse had been hammered enough to make a total ass of himself in front of family, friends and relatives at the event, the high school versions of The Hoff and I – as well as those of about ten other Northwest Side homeboys – had been doing a walk-and-drink through the alleys of our neighborhood. While on this suds-slugging trek, we came across an abandoned house on the seventy-hundred block of Oleander which no longer stands and has long since been replaced by a new construction.
Figuring it the perfect spot to take a load off and chill for a few drinks, we all piled into the backyard of this crumbly old wood frame shithole and carried on with the intake when, as per usual, The Hoff felt the need to rid himself of yet another drunken dump. Barely able to walk in his sloppy condition, BossMan stumbled up against the back wall of the house where all sorts of shattered glass had laid from busted-out windows and went to work. With pants at the ankles but too hammered to keep his balance, The Hoff continually teetered backwards in his squat and nearly fell to the ground but was able to reach back each time and catch himself before getting an ass full of glass – his hands weren’t so lucky.
Eventually, without noticing that everybody had been watching him and taking videos of his struggle on their cell phones, The Hoff was finally able to maintain his balance for just long enough to pinch his loaf. As triumphant as it’d been to finally get that mushy log out of his system, humiliation quickly ensued as he almost immediately lost his balance, fell backwards and – unable to put a hand down and hold himself up this time – dropped ass-first into the shit he’d just taken which sat upon a healthy layer of broken glass. Pulling his pants up over his bloodied and shit-covered can, The Hoff stumbled right past everybody who laughed at his misfortune, imparted a passing “fuck you” then walked home and called it a night around five in the afternoon.
Although all entertaining, the incontinent crapping case most pertinent to my close call in the Laotian van had been when, during his tenure at Marquette, The Hoff, with pants already full of shit, stepped into a similar vehicle which served as part of a free on-campus student transport system. Having done nothing to spare his peers of the stench, the circumstances of this shameless Hershey-squirting are detailed in the following excerpt of an AOL Instant Messenger conversation dated February 24, 2008:
Even though he’s the one who gets shit on his chode every time a load is dropped in his pants, PooCoveredChode is my screen name. If you can’t figure out who the other guy is, you’re a total fucking moron.
PooCoveredChode: What up boss?
Hoff21m: Nothin. What’d you do last night?
PooCoveredChode: Got wasted. How ‘bout you?
Hoff21m: Way too wasted.
PooCoveredChode: Oh yeah?
Hoff21m: Yeah. I went to the Poo Cabin (name of a house on campus which, although coincidental, has nothing to do with The Hoff’s inclinations) after the keg race, then to Mo’s (Irish Pub), then to meet my cousin at someone’s apartment where I puked all over myself.
PooCoveredChode: Hahaha you jackass.
Hoff21m: I also shit my pants.
PooCoveredChode: Haha no you did not!?
Hoff21m: Bet you can’t beat that.
Hoff21m: Walking back from Mo’s. I didn’t have a bus pass so I walked past 7th St. to get a LIMO (aforementioned student transport)….while waiting, it just came out.
Hoff21m: No warning.
Hoff21m: So I went behind a building, took my boxers off, wiped my ass and left them.
Hoff21m: Then in the LIMO it smelled so bad people were like, ‘WTF it smells like shit.’
Hoff21m: So I finally go… ‘Uhh yeah, sorry, I stepped in dog shit.’ Hahahaha
PooCoveredChode: Haha that’s awesome
PooCoveredChode: So you got shit on your pants too?
PooCoveredChode: That’s unbelievable. Did the log roll down your leg?
Hoff21m: It wasn’t a log
Hoff21m: I took a shower with my pants.
Hoff21m: Then I went back out and puked all over my other pants so I took a shower with them too.
PooCoveredChode: Haha oh my god, did they smell any better?
Hoff21m: Well, the room doesn’t smell and I at least got the puke and shit off both pairs of pants.
Pictured below is a photo of me after three days partying in VV…