Well kiddies, it's over. The seal has been broken. This morning I sharted. Yep, you heard it here first. It happened on an unremarkable morning; I woke up, burned 20 minutes snoozing my alarm and indulging myself with waking-cat stretches before I finally roused myself out of bed. A tremendous piss swelled in my bladder like a dammed up Niagra Falls, so I promptly walked to the bathroom to unleash my deluge. Standing at the bowl, in my blue polkadotted boxers and tube socks, I leaned into the experience, arching back with my hand on my hip, urinating like a champion sharpshooter. As is usually the case, the relaxing of my muscles knocked loose a pent up fart, rolling down through my bowels swiftly, as though it were a boulder menacing a young Indiana Jones. Strangely, a thought had occured to me in tandem: I probably don't need to shower this morning; I feel clean and smell fine; my underwear are clean, too. It was at this moment that the fates intervened, squeezing the juicy hubris from my asshole like a ripe orange. Suddenly the wet spreading sensation of damp heat pressed itself against my cheeks and onto my boxers. Then the slight pop of a bubble bursting, and a splattering on the floor beneath me. Had someone thrown a water balloon? A thin mudslide meandered down my leg as shock swirled around me. OH SHIT! Yes, oh shit indeed.
All of my youth and vigor, my vitality, lay smoldering on the floor like runny brown marmalade. I realized the worst part isn't the shitting - that's easy. And it isn't shitting on yourself, either - that comes off in the shower. The worst part is wiping up the physical manifesitation of shame. It is a rare and mystifying moment where an emotion is transformed and given physical form, powerful stinking corporeality. It must be confronted and dealt with, disposed of; a disgusting used up coffee filter to be flushed down the toilet.
The best part of waking up.
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