Well, Shart

Men are, by all accounts, less concerned with gas than women. It's a fact of life, brought on through a cycle of encouragement from our elder men that we then pass on to our own offspring. More often than not, when faced with a painful bubble and alone, or perhaps as a passive form of spousal abuse, or more commonly in an effort to amuse those of the same sex that surround us (they were brought up in the same cycle), men will let freedom ring.

Now this is no small matter. There are the obvious repercussions that effect all within olfactory range. But there are risks to the perpetrator as well. While slight, there is always the chance that it isn't gas, desperate to get out. Now these occurrences are rare, and typically easy to detect. But there are those rare times, perhaps early in the morning, or after a long night of drinking, when our judgement (as well as feeling in our extremities) just isn't what it should be. Thus the shart is born.

It's an unfortunate word, as it is married to a word I typically withhold from my usual dialogues. But to change it to the more kid-friendly "poop", and we are left with "part", which can easily cause a great deal of confusion.

"Mommy, I parted!"
"You farted?"
-whinier-"No Mommy, I parted!"
"You parted what? The Red Sea?"
"I parted in my pants!"

Mom starts breaking out the needle and thread, and Junior worries that the punishment for this offense is far greater than he anticipated.

Now for those of you who have never experienced or even witnessed such an event taking place, let me set the scene for you. Imagine, if you will, that you have just realized something so profound, so ominous, that your entire demeanor changes. You immediately leap to your feet, like a person possessed. But instead of rushing off to accomplish some newly realized life-goal, you very slowly, while at the same time very quickly, make your way to the restroom.

For any of you who have been witness to such events, you know what a special category they fall into. It is without a doubt, one of the most instantly recognizable and incredibly entertaining things anyone has ever seen. It has all the necessary elements of comedy. It's spontaneous and unexpected (and how), it is something unfortunate befalling someone else, and it involves poop. That's the trifecta.

Suffice to say the reason for this fecal-filled post is due to my own sad occurrence. Yes, you read right. I parted in my pants. I'm not afraid to say it. Especially since this is a completely anonymous blog. And now forever will be. Worse yet, I was only a couple of hours into my day. So I'm sitting at my desk, happily typing along, when I felt the urge. I had low expectations, so I let what I thought was a little gas slip out. Oh how wrong I was.

I of course, immediately rushed (sort of) to the bathroom, all the while hoping to minimize the catastrophe. So what ensued turned into a sort of leaning-back-and-squeezing-in-while holding-my-pants-out-without-looking-like-there-was-anything-wrong run/walk. Luckily I'm just a few dozen steps from the facilities.

Now all the while, some small part of me held out hope. Hope that I was mistaken. Hope that the results of all this effort would not be in vain. So I get into the room and almost start taking down my pants before I got into the stall. Now that would have been bad, since there were other people at the urinals. Worse yet, I knew one of them. So I casually made it look like I was adjusting myself and went into the stall.

Well, I won't go into too many details (HA HA HA HA HA) but suffice to say while there had been an accident, we did not have full penetration. Of course this left me with yet another dilemma. Do I clean up as best I can and soldier on, or do I remove the offending (offended?) garment and join the ranks of the commandos?

Well, I attempted the first option, with little success. So on to plan B. Well, the problem was, everyone and there brother (almost said mother, that would have been confusing) decided that moment was the best possible time to crowd into the stalls around me. Now, I don't know about you, but I think I would be able to tell what was going on if the guy next to me started taking off clothes.

So I waited. And waited. Things were starting to get sore. Eventually there was enough of a gap that I could make my move. But then it hit me. What do I do with it while I'm washing my hands and exiting? I can't exactly leave it sitting on the counter. So I come up with what I still consider a brilliant solution. I removed one shoe and one pant leg, got my leg out, and left the other leg in. I made sure the offense wasn't pressing against anything, and got the heck out of dodge, with a slight bulge around my upper leg. No one was the wiser.

Of course, when I got back to my desk, I had to struggle to get it out of my pant leg. That would have been an interesting discussion if my boss had come around the corner.

Me:"Have you seen that movie Zoolander?"
Boss:"No, I'm straight."

For some reason, I had a Ziploc bag sitting on my desk, which is now being used to seal in the freshness. I resisted the urge to suck out the air as I closed the bag.