My Name Is Jake and I Shit My Pants During A College Class This Week
Hi, my name is Jake. I’m a senior in college. You and I probably aren’t that different from one another, except for one major thing. I sharted during an exam this week and you more than likely did not. For all you sportsfans not familiar with the term, a “shart” is combination of “fart” and “shit.” As you read that sentence again and ask yourself, “Why?” and, “How?” just know that I am still asking myself the same questions. I’m not entirely sure why this devastating event had to happen to me. I don’t know if it was my diet, anxiety from studying, or simply karma punishing me via intestinal tract terrorism. Whatever it may have been, I will not wish this shameful situation upon another human being as long as I live.
My story has humble beginnings.
It all started the day before my exam. At 8:45 AM I begrudgingly rolled out of bed after repeatedly hitting my snooze button like it stole something. I take a transit bus to the dining hall (yes, I’m a fucking senior still on meal plan don’t judge me) and sit down with my plate of cheese grits, eggs, and bacon. I love breakfast. A mere whiff of breakfast food and I get harder than a diamond in a snowstorm. After coating said food items in Tobasco sauce, I inhale my breakfast and suck down two cups of coffee. I swag surf through my two classes for the day. After a late lunch/dinner (dunch?) of 2 grilled chicken breasts on a bed of lettuce, I head to my apartment.
I sit down ready to study for my exam the next day. Remembering I have goodies waiting for me in the fridge, I rise from my seat and fetch them. I open the refrigerator door and eye my prize – a four pack of sugar-free Red Bull. Now, I could have stopped at one. Or two. Or possibly after the third. But I didn’t. There’s something magical about studying computer processors that is easier with 32 ounces of Zeus’s piss coursing through your bloodstream. Over the next 8 or so hours I believe my body was trying to tell me something with all of the incessant foot tapping and stomach pains. I paid it no attention. Mind over matter. I don’t mind and it don’t matter. I study until my eyes bleed and get a full 3 hours of sleep for my morning exam.
I wake up with feeling like there’s a giant fiery pit churning in my gut, but I just decide that the feeling is a manifestation of my hate for mornings. I decide that I must forage for sustenance soon. I throw on my sweats (gametime baby) and head to the get breakfast. I must explain to you that I am by no means a small mammal. All 6 feet 220 pounds of me requires ample food in the morning. That being said, I think it was somewhere between my second plate of food and fourth cup of coffee that my body started scheming on how to completely fuck my day up. Finally giving in to my body’s urges, I check and see if I have enough time to go to the bathroom and squeeze off a couple rounds. Nope. I make the Ohama call at the line of scrimmage and decide that it’ll have to wait. What’s the worst that could go wrong?
Now, because a doctor has determined that I have the relative attention span of a rodent, the university allows me to take an exam in a solitary room in a different building if I so choose. This particular exam was to be extremely difficult and I chose to do so. Once I get there and set up shop, I begin to look over my test. I start to get that “full” feeling in my stomach as I sort through the first couple problem. C’mon Jake. Focus, you bastard. I take to summoning the strength that every man uses when he’s trying to last longer than 38 seconds in bed. By sheer willpower I am able to press on as the stomach pains increase immensely.
Do you ever eat and afterwards feel like if you could just let one rip you’d just feel so much better? Well, as my stomach pains had come to an almost unbearable level, I attempted to do so. I lifted up a cheek to hopingly blast the pants cannon and relieve the pressure on my stomach, and it happened. The expression on my face was the face you would make when your mom told you to take the frozen chicken out of the refrigerator before she gets home from work and you realize you forgot. I shift my weight in my chair to make sure I actually just sharted and, well, my suspicions were correct. I had one problem left, but starting calculating in my head how much oxygen was left in the room. I started thinking about news articles that would be written about me if I suffocated – “Student Dies From Apparent Shart, What An Idiot”. Would I get a medal for this? Would I meet the President if I survived? My mind raced.
I’m sitting here wallowing IN MY OWN FILTH, but I have one problem left. What the fuck do I do? Do I eat the test and claim insanity? Do I stick my fingers down my throat and puke on myself to take away from the shit currently taking residence in my briefs? Suddenly, a wave of focus came over me. My training took over. You see, this is not the first time I have been shamed by a shart. My freshman year, I had the stomach flu. My dorm had a random fire drill, and I was standing outside with everyone else. Suffering through similar stomach pains, I thought I had to fart and well…you know what happened next. When you can stand outside for thirty minutes and then climb four stories of stairs back to your bathroom with your own feces in your sweatpants you learn a thing or two about focus. I looked back at my test, sacked the FUCK up and finished my last problem. I waddled to the proctor to give her my exam.
I don’t know if there has ever been a recorded land speed faster than me trying to find a bathroom after that exam. I assumed that every person that I made eye contact with for the rest of the day knew my secret. I wished that it was raining so nobody could tell there were tears streaming down my face. When I finally got back to my apartment I took a 30 minute shower. There was nothing left to do other than that.
Thousands are victimized by our bowels every year. You may have been blackout drunk and have just eaten two chipotle burritos, but our experience makes us one in the same. I assure you that it is not something to keep bottled up inside; release it. I am currently seeking group therapy for my experience.
Jake Alexander is a big filthy mammal. You can send him hateful messages on Twitter – @callmeshitto