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Shit changes everything. We learn this from a young age.
When we were babies, we would shit ourselves, cry, and grownups would instantly bring us a fresh new bitchin’ diaper to make all the other babies jealous.
When I was in daycare, one day we were all swimming in the community pool. The counselor was yelling at us not to go too deep. We were disobeying, playing stupid kid games and splashing water in each other’s faces. All of a sudden a loud shriek was heard. The lifeguard’s whistle rang through our ears and everyone was ordered out of the pool. That’s when we saw the brown foreign mass lumbering near the bottom of the deep end like an AWOL Nazi submarine. Swimming was over. In fact, we couldn’t go swimming for days. Per regulations, they had to empty the entire pool and refill it with untainted water. This was eye-opening. One piece of doo-doo could effectively wipe out swimming for everyone.
In fifth grade, I remember going into the bathroom, only to walk in on the kindergartners taking a load off in the urinals, plopped up in reverse, with their pants around their ankles. I thought they were just being dicks, but they were just stupid kindergartners. They probably approached the urinal like I approached the Nintendo Wii for the first time when I was tripping on mushrooms. I didn’t even play a game; instead I was amazed by the music, the controller, and swore I was in Tokyo for two hours. The kids shitting in the urinals got so bad that the school ended up forcing us fourth and fifth graders to chaperone the clueless little shitters to the restroom, making sure they took to the stalls.
My freshman year of high school was different than the rest of my high-school campaign. It wasn’t because it was a new school or because I got into partying later on—it was because for most of the year the school was terrorized by the infamous "Mad Shitter." In between classes this guy would creep around and chuck a deuce right in the middle of the hallway, then smear the shit across the lockers. A few times he did it in the dark stairways, causing people to step in it. He even spread his chocolate paste all over the handrails, claiming more victims. Later, they must have ramped up security because we would randomly get told over the intercom to stay in our classrooms so they could clean up the hallway. This guy was a legit force in the school with no tool but his stool. He became a legend that all of us will forever recount to people in the future—like I am now. It happened for half the year at least. Finally it stopped. No one knew if he got caught or just decided to quit.
I’ve had my own fair share of shit stories, too. One summer a buddy of mine just got back stateside from getting shot at in Iraq. Since there’s barely anything to spend their money on over there, they usually come back with a large sum of cash. He could have invested it or saved it, but being smart is for pussies. Instead, he let me know he was blowing it at the bar. We didn’t want to chance drinking and driving, so I got this girl I knew to let us crash at her place on the beach. From morning to night we hit all the bars along the beach, finally sticking to one which had picnic tables out in front on the sand. These tourist girls who were older than us called me over to their table. They were lawyers or something. After a while this little wigger kid sat down and tried to undercut us with the girls. They shot him down immediately. After that I kind of blacked out.
When I was conscious again, it was night out, and a bouncer was barking at me to put a shirt on. He kept telling me that after nine o’clock everyone in the bar had to be wearing a shirt. I was confused, because I was on a beach, and the inside of the bar was thirty yards away. I kept waving him off, but he kept coming back and yelling, so I looked over and saw the wigger kid’s Boston Celtics jersey laying on the table, with him nowhere to be seen. I squeezed into his tiny jersey and told the bouncer to go fuck himself (not really, but that sounds more badass and there’s nothing more badass than sounding badass). The girls gave us their numbers and we started to stumble back to the beach house.
It was a longer walk than we remembered. We were walking in the middle of the road by that point, cars flying by, honking their horns, with us being generally intoxicated idiots. We reached the beach library and my friend informed me he had to take a leak. It then dawned on me that I had to leave a massive deposit with no return. I had the bubble guts, and there was no john in sight. I retreated to the side of the building and started walking up the fire exit. I reached the top step and took a squat, squirting out the wettest, nastiest butt baby you could imagine. However, I overextended myself, discovering I had nothing to wipe with, so I looked down and remembered I was wearing a white #34 Paul Pierce Boston Celtics jersey. None of my encounters with Bostonians have been flattering, so I had no qualms with the symbolism. I took the jersey off, wiped my ass, and left the now shit-stained Boston gear next to my fresh monstrosity right there on the library steps. This was all captured on the security camera located above me.
Rough reenactment.
Being homeless for over a year made me immune to being embarrassed or uneasy with shitting in places other than the loo. Wiping is always the biggest issue, but after a while you develop the ability to conjure anything into toilet paper. Sometimes you tear a sleeve off your shirt, or maybe you find an Oakleaf hydrangea and use one of its huge leaves. Or maybe you use a fellow bum’s left hand (personal favorite.)
There are all kinds of options. When I drink, sometimes I don’t know when to stop. When this happens, I black out, and that’s when I switch into "conservation mode"—my subconscious tells me I need to leave the area that is feeding me unlimited booze. I’m a "wandering" drunk. Stupid shit happens when you wander around drunk. I became notorious for walking out of bars and never paying. It got to the point where I had to start a bar tab the minute I walked in, since it got old having dudes yell at me saying I walked out on checks and me having no recollection of it.
Recently, after waking around in a drunken stupor I found myself in some hallway, locked out of all the available bathrooms and needing to defecate without a way to hold it. So what did I do? Easy—I looked around, popped a squat, and dropped the fucking kids off at the pool, right there in the hallway. Maybe I just wanted to live up to the greatness that was the "Mad Shitter." How did I wipe? I used a "Don’t Make Me Go Walken On You" Christopher Walken parody T-shirt. What I was doing with such a ridiculously stupid shirt isn’t of concern. Because hey, shit happens, man.
—GOAT SAMPSON
fucking, ew.