"I shit myself!!" Three words that no self-respecting individual would ever utter, unless, of course, it were true. After all, why would anyone go to such lengths to lie about something so disgusting and heinous? I guess I have no, or at the very least, very little self-respect, as I have told those three words to people and lied in doing so.
I have used this fib to get out of work, appointments and even plans with friends. The believability in the lie is determined by how willing you are to provide graphic details. Years ago, I was invited to a person's house to watch a movie. There was going to be a whole bunch of people there that I didn't know and I didn't really feel like attending just to sit uncomfortably for a few hours in a cramped space. Unfortunately, this was the kind of person that is difficult to say 'no' to. They're always wanting a reason why. Why? Why? Why? So, as I was about to begrudgingly leave my house to go over, a light bulb shot off and I had the perfect plan. I'd blow them off then simply tell them I had shit myself. "They'll believe that, I'm sure," I thought to myself.
The next day I received a phone call and it was my friend on the other end. Without even saying hello, they asked where I was and why I didn't bother coming over the night before. "I had an accident." I said. Before I was able to elaborate, they asked if I was okay and what had happened, speculating that someone had hit my vehicle.
"I shit myself." I said. There was an elongated pause, followed by a quiet, "What?"
I explained that I had been on my way to their house and while waiting at a red light, I had leaned to one side to squeak out a fart and the next thing I knew, I had nearly blown the back of my pants out with the nastiest wet fart in the history of farts. There was another long pause, followed by a dishevelled "What?" I took this as my cue to elaborate, stating that I had returned home to inspect Ground Zero and it wasn't a pleasant sight.
"You could've cleaned up and come over anyway." They said, not allowing something as small as a wet fart ruin the evening's festivities. "No, I couldn't," I said, "it was really really bad." I went on to explain how the shit had encompassed nearly all the real estate in and around my ass, some of which even mysteriously migrating around to the front. "No." I retorted, "It was a complete obliteration. I wound up having to throw my pants and underwear away. Sucks, because they were a new pair of pants. I don't think home insurance would cover a sewage backup that came out of my ass."
They totally bought the story, because like I said, no one with self-respect would ever lie about such a dramatic event, and being that the story was told over the phone, no actual evidence was ever necessary to provide.
Now I'm not saying that it hasn't ever happened. I think everyone, at one time or another, has sharted in their pants. Maybe nothing like the Shitanic that I just dramatized, but a little hint here or there. This one time, I'd gotten struck with some kind of virus and diarrhea was an unfortunate factor to be dealt with. I was running to the bathroom, literally, every seven to ten minutes. I didn't dare gamble and break wind, for fear it was something much more evil. I had to run to a medi-clinic to see what was afoot and get a doctor's not for work. However, in doing so, I had to time my travels just precise enough that I wouldn't be stuck in traffic and that a washroom would be readily available.
This virus was nasty. It got to the point where there was no more poop coming out. It was just water... Or poop juice. Like if someone were to squeeze a log of shit, the moisture that would run out, a veritable scorching shit juice from concentrate, that was setting my rectal area ablaze. Every visit to the cool porcelain toilet, was met with fire shooting out my ass. Whenever I see a flame thrower being used in an old World War Two movie, I'm viciously reminded of this period of time.
Treatment worked, but every time I felt gaseous in the days that followed, it was like Russian Roulette. With every squeeze of the "trigger", I'd wince just in case there was an explosion.
This second account is very much true. However, if you're like me and have very little self-respect and wish to get out of work this weekend, don't hesitate to use the story. We've all been there and most people wouldn't lie about something so disgusting and heinous..., but I would.
"I shit myself." I said. There was an elongated pause, followed by a quiet, "What?"
I explained that I had been on my way to their house and while waiting at a red light, I had leaned to one side to squeak out a fart and the next thing I knew, I had nearly blown the back of my pants out with the nastiest wet fart in the history of farts. There was another long pause, followed by a dishevelled "What?" I took this as my cue to elaborate, stating that I had returned home to inspect Ground Zero and it wasn't a pleasant sight.
"You could've cleaned up and come over anyway." They said, not allowing something as small as a wet fart ruin the evening's festivities. "No, I couldn't," I said, "it was really really bad." I went on to explain how the shit had encompassed nearly all the real estate in and around my ass, some of which even mysteriously migrating around to the front. "No." I retorted, "It was a complete obliteration. I wound up having to throw my pants and underwear away. Sucks, because they were a new pair of pants. I don't think home insurance would cover a sewage backup that came out of my ass."
They totally bought the story, because like I said, no one with self-respect would ever lie about such a dramatic event, and being that the story was told over the phone, no actual evidence was ever necessary to provide.
Now I'm not saying that it hasn't ever happened. I think everyone, at one time or another, has sharted in their pants. Maybe nothing like the Shitanic that I just dramatized, but a little hint here or there. This one time, I'd gotten struck with some kind of virus and diarrhea was an unfortunate factor to be dealt with. I was running to the bathroom, literally, every seven to ten minutes. I didn't dare gamble and break wind, for fear it was something much more evil. I had to run to a medi-clinic to see what was afoot and get a doctor's not for work. However, in doing so, I had to time my travels just precise enough that I wouldn't be stuck in traffic and that a washroom would be readily available.
This virus was nasty. It got to the point where there was no more poop coming out. It was just water... Or poop juice. Like if someone were to squeeze a log of shit, the moisture that would run out, a veritable scorching shit juice from concentrate, that was setting my rectal area ablaze. Every visit to the cool porcelain toilet, was met with fire shooting out my ass. Whenever I see a flame thrower being used in an old World War Two movie, I'm viciously reminded of this period of time.
Treatment worked, but every time I felt gaseous in the days that followed, it was like Russian Roulette. With every squeeze of the "trigger", I'd wince just in case there was an explosion.
This second account is very much true. However, if you're like me and have very little self-respect and wish to get out of work this weekend, don't hesitate to use the story. We've all been there and most people wouldn't lie about something so disgusting and heinous..., but I would.
No comments:
Post a Comment