A third attempt at this blogging business.
|I'm back home from my trip to Buffalo...looks like I've got a few prompts to catch up with if I'm gonna win this month's "30-Day Blogging Challenge" .
30DBC PROMPT (Friday): "Wardrobe malfunctions: How can this topic not be funny? From nip slips to unexpected wind gusts, share your best/worst wardrobe malfunctions or those you have witnessed."
I see it. You see it. If you have functioning eyes you can't get away from the tire fires some people try to pull off as "outfits". There truly are some unfortunate people out there who just don't realize how ridiculous they look once they leave their sanctified mirrors. And as much as I'd love to pile on that gross misjudgment of society, I can't...perhaps it's the self-deprecation gene in me that feels like I have to share more than you want (or care) to know.
Sharts. Don't look at me like you don't know what I'm talking about. That moment when you think you have to fart and can let it slip out easily, but you wind up shitting yourself. It's like life hating you, only a bazillion times worse.
See, it starts with the crazy ex, and it typically involves a long night of drinking draft beer in a lousy bar you stayed at for two hours longer than you hoped you'd be there, because crazy ex is super cute and fun sex. Only, if she gets too drunk, she starts reminding you that she's batshit cray-crazy, misses her husband in his coked-up glory, and starts beating you because you got a text from another female (while her phone is being blown up by random dudes). When sex isn't salvageable, and you have to work in the AM, you have an appearance to put on. Batshit doesn't wear well on middle management.
So I'm at work, doing my managerial duties the morning after a long night of poor decisions. I feel the gas, and I'm prepared to gently let it exit my body...but it feels a lot warmer than usual. Yup, that was a beer poop. On the sales floor. Humiliation washed over me like the worst rain storm you've ever been caught in, multiplied by a ginormous panic attack.
Again, don't act like you've never been there.
Fortunately, my sister and youngest brother lived down the street from the store I was working at, and Bro Mike was the same waist size as me. Snuck my cell phone into the bathroom, called up Selfish Whore (pet name for kid sis), and was like "Can you, uhhh, bring me some boxers? I, uhhh, had an accident." What else do you say? I shit myself, please help?
She came through though, and I was able to continue the workday free of voided bowels. I'll genuinely take a nip slip or some "oopsie, maybe it was on purpose and maybe it wasn't" panty shot over the shart. There is no possible explaining-away of the shart. It's telltale, and you need to act fast lest it becomes your legacy...nobody wants to be that guy who shat himself! And if you've ever experienced this morning-after draft beer phenomenon, don't be shy about it. I'm with ya, brothers and sisters. Shit happens...to all of us. And if it hasn't yet, someday it will.