In early 1997, I moved out of my parent's house and into an apartment with Mac and Brandon. Legally those were the only people on the lease, but Jon also took up residency in the washer/dryer connections room, and Bubba usually took up residency in the hall bathroom nearly every thursday, friday, and saturday night. Coincidentally, we all attended Southeasten Louisiana University that semester and would usually carpool on the rare occasion all 4 of us went to school. One morning, Mac and I were in the living room about to leave when it slowly became more and more apparent the others wouldn't be arising from their liquor induced comas from the night before. And lo, we set out on the 45 minute trek down Interstate 12.
About halfway there, we drove thru a Burger King or something and got some sort of vile and potent fast food breakfast. That combined with the coffee, nicotine, and beer from the night before eventually proved a little more than even the strongest of stomachs could handle. Naturally, we were blowing it up in the car nonstop. I remembered when Bubba would be in the car, he often would say "Oh my God, it smells like a baby just shit in here.." which would ilicit laughter all around. Either way, this time it was just me and Mac. And good thing too - because I was about to need a co-pilot.
Over and again, we were just ripping it up, left and right. Riding down the interstate doing about 70 miles per hour, I eventually took it a little too far. Tragedy befell me. A wave of dread and dispair washed over me as I immediatley leaned forward, trying to get away from the minor catastrophe I'd just created. "Oh fuck" I said to Mac. "What?" "Um, I think I just crapped in my pants a little". Although I didn't just think it. I KNEW it. That's one of those things you just know.
Of course he started laughing hysterically at my misfortune as I kind of pulled myself off the seat, trying not to sit down. I didn't know what to do. We were almost to school. I wasn't going to turn around and drive another 40 minutes back to Baton Rouge sitting in my own tiny amount of poowater. This was a serious problem that needed to be corrected as soon as humanly possible. I looked over at him and said "We're gonna need to swap seats." I didn't want to pull over and have a cop show up asking questions. "Sorry, Officer. I just crapped in my pants." I was desperate. This isn't a situation you want to be in for very long. I needed to rid myself of this problem. I needed to get out of the makeshift non-diaper I'd just turned my pants into. This situation had to be taken care of. Time for the acrobatic tactics. We were gonna have to do this on the fly.
I set the cruise control of my 1992 Dodge Ramcharger, currently doing about 73 mph. I looked at Mac and said "Take the wheel". He protested such an idiotic manuever for a little while, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Eventually he consented and grabbed the right side of the sterring wheel while I dragged myself over to the center console and into the backseat. He climbed over the console and into the driver's seat. My truck at the time had a large storage area behind the back bench seat, so I climed over the little couch and landed in the very back of the truck between the back seat and the hatchback door like I was a wounded soldier crawling back to a foxhole. Luckilly I remembered I'd left an old white t-shirt in the back. As Mac laughed from the front of the car, I pulled my jeans down and leaning forward onto my knees, wiped myself off. The windows were tinted somewhat, but I'm sure somebody behind the truck could see violent thrashing about.
I took my underwear off, balled up the shirt with the clean part outside, and just wrapped duct tape all around the soiled linens. After I was about as clean as I thought I'd possibly be, I put the rest of my clothes back on and climbed back into the front of the truck. By this point we were almost to the freshmen parking lot at SLU, so I figured I'd let Mac just take us the rest of the way in. I was too traumatized anyway.
On the way to my first class, we strolled through the Union breezeway and I discreetly tossed the poo-shirt duct tape ball in the first trashcan I saw. I freeballed it the rest of the schoolday. Mac seemed eager to tell everyone of the adventure we just went through, but I begged him not to. Of course, we were at a party that weekend and I was just blabbering it to everyone, but at the time it seemed like quite a sensitive subject. So the moral of the story is: Don't poo in your pants while driving unless you have a passenger willing to risk their own life and a big enough vehicle to throw yourself all over. And leave a t-shirt in the back somewhere. You never know when you might need it.
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