Anywho, Bomb Night was a sacred ritual that happened every few months in my fiancee's apartment. Bomb night was usually a hit for me because it usually consisted of about 30-50 sorority girls, 2 random boyfriends or so plus me and either my roommate, a friend or two, or my fiancee's broski.
Bomb night was always themed. This particular Bomb night which is going down as one of the lowest moments of life was to wear Pink. Like any heterosexual man would, I dug deep into my closet and opted for some Ralph Lauren pink linen pants. Nothing says "this guy likes to party" like a pair of pink linen pants.
I was fortunate to have a buddy come up that evening. For privacy reasons we will call him Tory. Tory came up after I was about 6 beers in, as well as 2 slices of cheese pizza in. The slices of cheese pizza play an important role in this story because if you are dunce do not recall my other 5 posts about shitting and poo, I am lactose intolerant.
Tory and I were hanging out, drinking some Natty Bohs like any other 23 year old should when they are 2 years removed from college. We were simply standing against a wall, watching 4 shorties play each other in beer pong and all of a sudden, I passed gas. It was followed by immediate stench and an awkward moment of eye contact between Tory and me. I apologized immediately and said yikes that smells. He replies " yeah, you smill like shit." That was pretty normal, especially for our relationship. So we thought nothing of it and walked away, leaving the girls with the smelly delight.
Our night carried on, we put down some more bombs, and slowly punched one way tickets to blackout city. The night continued with us going to a few bars, where I did the Bruised Banana usual, which includes grinding on and getting grinded on. We got back home, had some chicken from the random Mexicans who always cooked on their mini grill at 2am in front of finacee's apartment and I called it a night... on the futon.
The next morning I wake up, full clothed and roll over and walk to the bathroom. At this point my buddy who was sleeping on the couch next to me says "dude what the fuck is on your pants?" I replied, "I have no fucking idea, what is it?!" He then starts giggling, then laughing, then convulsing. I freaked out and ran into my fiancee's room and woke her up. "What the fuck is on my pants?!"
Then the words that will haunt me for the rest of my life "YOU SHIT YOUR PANTS OH MY GOD YOU SHIT YOUR PANTS!!!"
At this point my roommate who was sleeping in the other bedroom was awaken up by all the ruckus and comes out and sees that there is literal shit on the back of my pants. No, it was not there because I sat in something. It was there because that smell fart next to the beer pong table during bomb night happened to in fact be a SHART. Yes that happened.
The next hour, literally an hour, was filled with non-stop laughter and for me, laughter included with tears. Tears of embarrassment and well, what the fuck joy, because now I had a story to tell for the rest of my life... if I chose to share.. and well obviously I am choosing to share.
My buddy called his cousin up to come look at my pants. So he showed up. For the next 2 weeks my roommate provided me with random picture messages of my shit stained pants as well as random texts during the day, whether I was at work or in the room with him, with messages such as "hey remember when you shit your pants" or "hey sharter, what's up."
A couple days after, I returned back home and brought the pants with me. I opened the door and yelled, "mom, guess what your very mature son did!?!?! Can you help me get a stain out please??" As instructed, she did. And I was able to wear the same pants to the 1 year anniversary of that pink bomb night. And guess what? I didn't shart this year. Yay!
The following is a picture of the stained britches and under britches. This is your OFFICIAL WARNING. Don't look if you are easily disgusted!
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