Two Stories of Grown Men Shitting Themselves, One of Whom Is Me

You may say I'm a pooper - but I'm not the only one

It happens. It's funny. So I'm going to tell these stories.  Don't like it? Tough, well, you know.

The first story concerns my boon companion Ken. How close are we?  Josie is jealous of him. Well, not really, but I figured I'd toss that out there.

Ken was on a third date, which, in Ken's world, means they've already had nasty sex twice, and they're ready to take the next step, which is farting in front of each other.  Before the date, she came over to his apartment. He was wearing shorts and was crouching down, messing around with a large ceramic potted plant. His shorts, as shorts do when one crouches, got a little v-shaped space right above his ass crack.

Remember, he had decided that he was going to deliberately crack a rat in front of this girl to show his comfort in front of her. So - when he felt one coming on, he called her attention to the oncoming wind, made some fitting remarks, drew a breath and bore down.

Unfortunately what came out was not gas but rather about a liter of steaming pudding, that shot through the v-notch in his shorts, straight up in the air about five feet, and with the help of gravity, came down directly on his head, shoulders, and t-shirt.

They did not go on their date, and the two of them never saw each other after that day.

My story pales in comparison, and is shorter besides, but I like to tell it to demonstrate my incredible smoothness under less than optimal circumstances.

Tootsie and I were heading out to dinner one fine evening.  As we got in her car I made a similar error in judgement and instead of passing some harmless flatus, made a much more substantial contribution to society and found myself swimming, as it were, in my own waste. But rather than shrink in embarrassment and apologize for my having mistaken one state of matter for another, in my most booming baritone I affected an aristocratic British accent and announced with great authority, "Dear - shut off the car.  I've shit myself."

Although I did not have to clean shit out of my hair, I did have to shampoo the passenger seat of Tootsie's car - several times, in fact. So, no harm, but incredibly foul.

What about y'all? I know you have.  Are you brave enough to tell the tale of stinky tail?