2 Fast 2 Poo-rius

Ain’t nobody stopping this train.

If you’re a new reader, this is a standalone sequel to Poopy-Di-Scoop: That One Time I Pooped My Pants. But if you’re a returning reader, I must warn you that this isn’t a tale like old; it’s a tad more unsavory to digest this time around, and there isn’t any lack of English literacy involved — no vowels or consonants, just bowels and continence.

On July 9th, 2023, I performed a heinous crime, and the following written work is to bring light to my shameful action. Forgive me father, for I have sinned, it has been 20 years since my last confession.

What happened on July 9th, the two-thousand-and-twenty-third year of our lord and savior Jesus Christ, you ask? I appreciate you asking. I shat myself.

The day started out great. The night before, I had planned on attending the Pride Parade, and I was going to meet up with a group of friends to go together at around ten in the morning. However, I went to bed really late — it was almost dawn when I began my shut-eye. At that point I had resigned to the fact that I was definitely missing the event. Lo and behold, my body managed to wake up around nine without any help from alarms. A miracle, if you know me. I got dressed, packed a breakfast, finished my morning routine, and after some moseying about, made it to the group in town.

The parade was lovely. We walked through the blocked-off downtown with a myriad of interest groups, which ranged from your favorite conglomerate, McDonald’s, to the local Russian socialist club. The day was maybe a bit warm, if I had to nitpick, but it had the ideal sunlight people longed for in winter.

During the parade, I felt my first biological notification — the ancient call for the porcelain altar. The feeling of digestive issues was promptly ignored as I was confident in my morning routine earlier.

The walk ended at a moderately sized parking lot with local vendors, farmer’s market style. As the group parted ways in smaller groups, I jumped on the opportunity to extend an offer to a friend to continue hanging out; I’ve been meaning to get to know him better.

We grabbed free fries from the McDonald’s food truck (yup, you read that right), swung by our friends’ pop-up booths, and ended up at a local bar to seek shelter from the heat. During this time, my body again pinged a notification to warn me of its overextended visitor. I figured it would be one of those situations where your stool contracts Stockholm Syndrome and quells itself for hours to come. I re-focused my attention on the conversation and resumed day drinking. All was well until my body notified me one more time, this time with undeniable urgency — similar to how phone calls can go through Do Not Disturb when they come through twice. I really didn’t want to use a public restroom, but the situation seemed dire — the prisoner was about to escape. So I decided to pick up the call.

I excused myself from the conversation and headed to the bathroom. The movement acted as a catalyst to my impending doom. I approached the stall and pushed it. No dice. Oh, it must be a pull, d’oh! And so I pulled. The door didn’t budge. Shit.¹ I knew right then that I was royally screwed.

I gathered myself and set out to find a toilet. With my foot already turned towards the exit, I told my friend we needed to head out. I desperately needed to find an establishment with a toilet. I started walking east with the assumption that I was bound to hit a store I could squat in — I was downtown after all. Except… there was a parade; nothing looked like it normally does. My panic was setting in and I started to tunnel vision.² I told my friend that I needed to find a toilet, and he mentioned a coffee shop just a couple blocks down. At this point, I was full penguin-ing. Each waddle felt like I was unlocking the door to my demise.

Left. Right. Left. Right.
I soldiered on with my head down, brain empty. No thoughts.

I waddled on, then it happened. The turtle had woken from slumber, and it was peeking out. I don’t know if I believe in God, but at that moment, all I could do was to bargain with the devil. “Sure, the process has started,” I convinced Satan and myself, “but if I get to a toilet now, I can still save myself from any major damage.” That thought came to an end as I approached a crosswalk. I looked up, and it was one of my favorite brunch spots. I was a block away from freedom. It felt like when movie characters come back into life from a white screen after they were on the brink of death. My motivation replenished. I just needed to hold it in…

.
.
.

There’s always a catch when you deal with the Devil. Mine was a cold bargain. The only thing I can think of that encapsulates the situation is an ICEE. You know, that icy, blue raspberry Slurpee that you can get at the movies?

1. It has a distinctive texture — coarse, cylindrical, yet shapeless liquid.
2. Just when you think the machine is going to stop, it keeps going.
3. That same feeling of powerless regret that one goes through as they go down on an ICEE, yet they can’t stop.

The enemy had fully breached the castle. I stopped in my tracks and froze (again, just like an ICEE). My brain unlocked its true potential, kicked into gear, and took over. First action item, I let my soon-to-be-friend (well, “previously-soon-to-be”, because who knows if he’ll still want to hang after this) know that I unfortunately needed to go. Thankfully, although taken aback, he went with the flow and imparted no questions.³ Second action item, I faced my back to a wall lest my newly-released product showed through my Old Navy joggers, a move I’m forever thankful of my brain for. Third action item…

Third action item?

Apparently, that was all the thought juice I had in store because my brain completely stopped working. (A brain freeze, if UCEE what I mean.)

I could only hope that nothing would leak in the moment, and my confidence around that lowered every second by how strongly the smell permeated through. As I was thinking about how badly I felt about bringing this horrid stench to the handful of homeless folks just minding their own business, an acquaintance I hadn’t seen or talked to in a while recognized me and stopped by to say hi. Boy, did I autopilot through that conversation. My deep sense of embarrassment and insecurity couldn’t help but hope that he attributed the smell to somebody else. I stood there awkwardly, brainstorming ways to get out of this sticky (and runny) situation.

Option 1: Walk back to where I parked and go home.
There was no way I could’ve gone home in the same mode of transport I came into town on: a bike. Just the thought of the bits of excretion seeping all the way down my pants then flinging themselves at the cars behind me stopped me from entertaining that idea any further.

Option 2: Procure new clothes.
I was barely able to shuffle, let alone walk to a clothing store. Plus, clothing stores typically don’t have showers.

Then a light bulb went off.

I could Uber home. In fact, I could Uber home, clean myself up, then order another Uber to come back into town to retrieve my bike. Expensive, but there are always consequences to our actions. With panic dominating my thought process, I quickly called for an Uber.

“Mohammed (4.96 stars) is arriving in a Honda CR-V Hybrid in 3 minutes.”

Relieved, I collected myself during the wait; proud of myself for how decisive I was. Then, it hit me — my bodily fluids are going to decimate the seat of that 43 mpg Japanese car. Panic quickly re-introduced itself.

What should I do?
Do I purchase a towel to sit on?
Where am I going to find a place downtown that sells towels?
Maybe my pants are thick enough to act as a barrier?
What if I hovered for the entire 26-minute ride?
Do CR-Vs come with fabric seats?
Oh no.

Before I could even remotely find a suitable solution, I noticed a gray Honda pull up across the street. After a deep breath (but not too deep because uh.. air pollution), I wiggled my way over, really crossing my fingers on my physics knowledge that my dark joggers would indeed absorb all the light and not reflect the stains for others to see. As I approached the car, I was oh-so-glad to see that the seats were leather! Leather just felt like it had more wipe-ability than fabric.

I told Mohammad, the driver, that I had a bit of an accident and didn’t want to stain his seats, and asked if he had any paper towels. He got out and retrieved a roll from the trunk to which I welcomed myself multiple sheets to. He seemed confused and I don’t think he understood the gravity of the situation. He would soon enough. So would those paper towels, because they were going to be working overtime. I took more sheets than what I thought was enough, walked over, and placed them down on the seat. I sat down in the immaculate compact crossover SUV and rolled down the windows. My entire “personality” filled the cabin. Mohammad came back in and situated himself. One of those small good things that resulted from COVID, amidst all the tragedy, is that Mo had a stack of masks in the glove compartment. He doubled up on those bad boys, much to my relief as the layered surgical masks were going to deny my stench unfiltered access to his sense of smell.

The entire ride home was torture. I couldn’t even imagine what was going through Mo’s mind. At any minute, I anticipated to be kicked out with him telling me that he just couldn’t do it anymore. But, there wasn’t a peep of complaint; no wonder why he was only 0.04 points away from a perfect 5-stars rating. I couldn’t laugh nor cry, and yet I desperately wanted to do both simultaneously. The ride was loooooong. The ICEE slush had melted into a pool of syrup, and it sloshed around. Every bump, every red light, every turn — I couldn’t be more present if I tried. With how mindful I was during the entire drive, I’m in awe I didn’t achieve Nirvana right there and then. Who knew that this was the solution to my meditation woes.

As Mo turned into the mile-and-a-half long driveway, I brainstormed what I should do when he dropped me off. I absolutely was not going to leave him with just the Uber payment. Even with a 20% tip, the $30 ride fare felt inadequate. I also wanted to at least wipe the seats down. A plan was concocted, and I was ready to execute it. Like a cowboy hovering their hand on their pistol, I had the words lined up in my head, and cocked it on the tip of my tongue.⁴ The car pulled in, which set off the Rube Goldberg machine:

1. Told Mo to wait in the car.
2. Took off the paper towels that had been clinging onto their dear life.
3. Went into my house, grabbed my Cotton Mist Linen Scentsations by the bedside.
4. Wetted a thick triple folded sheet of paper towels.
5. Tore another equally thick sheet of dry paper towels.
6. Grabbed $100 in cash.
7. Darted out straight to the seat.
8. Wiped the seat wet and dried it, thrice.
9. Pumped a few of the linen spray on it, then wiping it down with a clean dry paper towel to lock in the fragrance.⁵
10. Handed him the 5 Andrew Jacksons.
11. Thanked him for his time and profusely apologized.

Much to my surprise, he was not fazed at all. He even thanked me for cleaning up after myself. Mo, you’re a real one for that.

As he prepared to drive away, I decided to push my luck⁶: I asked if he would be interested in waiting ten minutes and then driving me back downtown. Yeah, I know, I couldn’t believe my gall either. He asked how much I was willing to pay, to which I replied $40, or $10 over what the Uber costed to get home. He nodded, which set off the next sequence of my Goldberg machine:

1. Dashed back into my house.
2. Took off my pants… Plop. A dollop of the Brown family parted ways from the joggers. Can’t worry about that now — no time!
3. Took off my shirt and jumped right into the shower.
4. Shampoo. Body scrub. Body wash. You know what they say: “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast”. This wasn’t the time to be sloppy with an exorcism.
5. Rinsed and dried myself off. Got out of the shower.
6. Cleaned up Mrs. Dookie Brown, who was still hangin’ out as a blob, away from her family.
7. Threw the gilded pants under the shower and let the water run, enough to let it erode away the bigger debris.
8. Got dressed.
9. Grabbed another $60 in cash.
10. Went back out to face the world.

During the shower, I had an intriguing thought. I wondered if rubbing dryer sheets onto the seat could help with the situation. So, I made sure to grab a couple sheets before I got out of the house. It just felt like the friction and the smell would somehow magically extract the remaining smell from the seat. I’m here to report that it indeed did not. But it did work as a barrier between the seat and the fresh pair of pants I was wearing.

The ride back out was somehow more embarrassing, probably because my adrenaline had settled and my sleep deprivation had kicked in. I was still stuck on the first of the five stages of grief. It felt like this universe had branched off from the main timeline, and somehow, I was stuck in the shittier one where I wasn’t strong enough.⁷

Five minutes into the ride back downtown, I realized that I had come back out in the same exact attire — another pair of black Old Navy joggers with another charcoal gray t-shirt. I knew that they were clean, but did Mo? The rest of the ride, all I could again think of was what was going through Mo’s mind.

We got to where I parked my bike, and it was time to say goodbye to my best friend. Mo had been with me through thick and thin — thick, before the ride began, and thin when things began to drip during the trip. Mo welcomed me without any judgment, and he truly accepted me for who I really was. He was my ride-or-die. I handed him the $60, then, in a weakened state, I did something that I’ll beat myself up for for years to come. I went on to break the trust of this beautiful person, and to this day, I can’t believe I ended it all with a terrible lapse in judgment.

I told him a lie, a lie that I will forever regret — I sheepishly blurted out that I had a medical condition.

What a coward I was! Truly a shit-stain move. Sure, it was a bad bout of diarrhea, but to say that I had a “medical condition”!? C’mon, Kaung, Mo didn’t deserve that dishonesty and betrayal.

I’m sorry I lied to you, Mo. Thank you for your hospitality.

It’s been a while since I last wrote. But when there’s a true story as important as this to uncover, I could no longer stay silent; journalism demanded the truth.

What’s next? I don’t know. But, here’s to hoping the producers don’t order a trilogy for this series.

Alternate titles:

• Poopy-di-scoop: Here We Go Again
• Poopy-di-scoop: Fury Load
• Poopy-di-scoop 2: Judgment Day
• Poopy-di-scoop 2: The Electric Poo-galoo
• Poopy-di-scoop 2: The Electric Where’s the Loo
• Poopy-di-scoop: The Force Awakens
• Poopy-di-scoop: The Revenge of the Filth

¹ I couldn’t.
² I really did, because as I write this I’ve just looked up on Google Maps to see the closest establishment, and there was a restaurant in the other direction I was walking. *And* I apparently passed a coffee shop that was 2 doors down in the direction I walked. Fuck.
³ I still have no idea if he caught on, but if you’re reading this now, let me know!
⁴ 😏
⁵ I had no idea what I was doing, but I felt like a professional detailer, proud of the best detailing job I had ever done.
⁶ Luck wasn’t the only thing I pushed out that day.
⁷ I wonder how the main timeline Kaung is doing.