Nothing Like a Little Hard Work and Defecation

For Elizabeth Dunn. Thanks for putting up with a lot of shit with me… or at least a night’s worth.
There are two things that I hate more than anything in the world: vomiting and poop. And Gabourey Sidibe from Precious. Three things. Yeah. But vomit and poop would definitely take the top two spots. When I was younger, I would get sick and throw up so hard that the blood vessels in my eyes would burst. I looked similar to one, Natalie Portman, in Black Swan. Since childhood, I have done everything in my power to keep from throwing up. The only thing that rivals vomit in my eyes is poop. I’ve never been a big fan of any kind of bodily fluids, but there’s something super disgusting about poop. That’s why I plan on hiring illegal help to change my children’s diapers. I won’t be responsible for that; I can barely stand my own poop. I’m not one of those people that looks back into the toilet to see what I’ve done. I like being done with my business as soon as I can be.
I’m aware that it’s a natural process. I’ve read the literature. Everyone also dies and has taxes; I don’t like to think about those things either. If there’s one thing that I cannot tolerate, it’s the idea that someone would ever poop on themselves. I once had a close call sitting in the Student Involvement Office with a friend and the two Student Programming Board advisors. I thought I had a simple silent flatulence, but it happened to be the ever-dreaded “shart.” I knew what kind of trouble I was in, so I quickly clenched, braced myself on the two armrests and thrust myself up from the chair. I swiveled my hips back and forth, using the oddest set of motor skills to excuse myself to the bathroom. Luckily, by the grace of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, I came up clean. Someone bigger than us was watching over me that day. I never talked about that day; actually, this is the first time that I’m confronting the issue head on. Pooping is serious business, and the last thing that I would consider it some kind of joke. Shame on you for thinking that poop is something to be scoffed at.
However, the only thing that has ever combatted my fear and hatred of poop is the safety of another human. I suppose I should elaborate. One special night my senior year, a night we at Maryville like to call “Senior Beer and Wings,” the seniors are served… b
eer and wings. I know, plot twist. Because my class spent 3.25 years brown nosing, most of them were at least slightly buzzed 1.25 Bud Light Limes in. Of course the only way to legitimately celebrate four years of hard work is to visit a classy establishment. Somewhere like a community center or a nice restaurant. That’s why we all went to The Roaming Gnome. The Roaming Gnome is about two miles from campus: a fantastic equation for a class of people who really have no idea how to hold their alcohol in the first place. I digress. However, there was one little gemstone in the rough that really stood out that night. She wasn’t a regular at the class gathering scene, but I had a couple classes with her in the past. No need to leave her out.
As then night progressed, I started noticing the actions of my classmates. I’m an observer: often assuming the role of “mother” at social events with more than seven people. The girl, from here forward referred to as “Diamond” (the most precious of gemstones), seemed to be downing a lot of blue concoctions throughout the evening. My personal rule with alcohol is drink it straight or mix it with other alcoholic things, but there’s no need to be drinking anything called “Sex on the Beach with a side of dry sand served on pieces of rock salt and crack cocaine.” That’s too much of a mouthful for me. Give me an LIT, thanks. My mother’s intuition kicked in, and I saw Diamond being escorted out the door by some random man I didn’t know. I followed them out and asked Diamond for a cigarette. I knew it would take her at least four minutes minimum to flush one out of her purse, which gave me just enough time to have a conversation with the smartest man I’ve ever met. The conversation goes as such:
Justin: Hey man, she’s really messed up. You should probably just go on without her.
Diamond’s Rapist: Dude, she wants to go with me.
Justin: Dude. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know her name right now.
Diamond’s Rapise: F— this.
Justin: Yeah, it’s disappointing. I’m sorry.
I had to explain to Diamond that her not-fiance had left without her. In response, I think that made her order more. Eventually, I found her again laying down on a table. I’m not a frequent bar goer, but I don’t think it’s kosher to go limp on the bar table. Honestly, in retrospect, I think she was napping before her food came. (I still don’t know when she ordered food, or how for that matter). However, I knew it was time for her to go home. I enlisted the help of Elizabeth to help her up, but once we lifted her, Elizabeth let out a giant “Ohhhhhh!” Elizabeth let go of her arm and she fell back into the seat. It wasn’t long after that I understood what had happened. Her descent into the seat sent the answer straight to my nostrils… that’s when I said it. Ooooooh, baby girl, you pooped on yourself.
Like many situations involving tragedy, I blocked a great deal of the immediate aftermath out. I forget how exactly we got her to her car, but the next thing I knew, she was in the passenger seat, and I was in the driver’s. We were sitting there. In it. Smack in the remains of ground zero. I quickly found the windows and had the second best exchange of the night.
Justin: Diamond, what’s your address?
Diamond: I don’t know.
Justin: Diamond, can you give me directions?
Diamond: I don’t know.
Justin: Diamond, did you poop on yourself?
Diamond: I don’t know.
It seemed we were going in circles. Eventually, I found her address from an envelope in her car. My friend followed behind to give me a ride back. We got to her street and she slurred, “Just stop the car here. I can drive.” I responded, “I don’t think that’s a great idea.” She retorted, “My mom can’t know about this.” I finished with, “Well, I feel like she’s going to know when she finds your pants in the morning.” Checkmate.
Later, I would talk to Diamond, and she assured me that it was only a twenty minute continuous fart. But as an opposer of all things feces related, I know a pair of nasty drawers when I smell them. Do I regret my decision to help a fellow human in the face of, well, poop? I don’t know. Would I do it again? Probably not. Does it only reinforce my hatred of poop? Absolutely.

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