I Shit Myself In Public After Eating Chipotle — Here’s The Harrowing Story

I’d like to preface this by saying that I am a contributing member to society: I have a degree, I pay taxes, and I’m an organ donor. I’m not an animal.

Some people are predisposed to diabetes or cancer. Do we point and laugh at them? Do we constantly remind them of that hilarious time they got cancer? Answer: no. I happen to be susceptible to shitting myself in public. And I’ve yet to hear the end of it. Just because I have all my hair and don’t carry around an insulin pen, doesn’t make my struggle any less real.

Uncontrolled shitting is in my genes, or more appropriately my jeans. Both of my brothers have dropped a deuce in their pants in public places and have lived to talk about it. I’ve seen my dad’s undies come out of the dryer looking like they got dried with an open bottle of A1 Sauce. I was undoubtedly the next in line. I was farting on borrowed time.

It all started like any other weekend night. Me and my boys were planning on having some drinks and conversing with the opposite sex aka getting legless drunk and calling the bouncer a pussy on the way out after zero female interaction. Anyway, we needed to coat our stomachs with food before we hurt ourselves and others with alcohol.

That’s when I made my first misstep.

Mistake #1: Chipotle.

I don’t think I’ve ever taken a shit after Chipotle that hasn’t been an Emergency. With a capital E. The relationship my stomach has with a Chipotle burrito can be compared to the relationship between Israel and Palestine. When they interact, its almost impossible not to drop a bomb. No warning, no flare signals, no cease-fire, just unrelenting destruction. I honestly can’t remember a time where I wasn’t frantically unbuckling my belt bouncing from foot to foot in front of the toilet like a douchebag runner at a “Don’t Walk” sign.

So, in correlation with my string of terrible decisions throughout my life, I walked into Chipotle with a naïve smile on my face hoping to suddenly have the ability to eat a burrito the size of a toddler and then walk into the club like me and my stomach were on the same page.

“Sour cream, cheese, guacamole, hot sauce.” Hold on, be right back.

…Sorry just took a shit after writing that. My therapist says it’s common to suffer from PTSD (Post Traumatic Shit Disorder).

Anyway, had a few laughs and a few farts with the boys before deciding to head out to our destination. Then came my next blunder.

 Mistake #2: Getting On the Subway

Not allowing your stomach enough time to process what you’ve just done to it is not only unfair, it’s dangerous. “What’s that, Stomach, you’re hungry? Boom! Now you’re 9 months pregnant!”

We had about five or six stops to get to our destination: a bar in Boston’s Back Bay that my buddy insisted we go to because he made out with a chick there back in 1981. After the second stop, the baby started kicking. Like fucking Cristiano Ronaldo. It was like an invisible hand was pulling my colon to the Underworld. Then I made the third fuck up of the night.

Mistake #3: Getting Off the Subway

At Harvard Square, the epicenter of Harvard University. Full of pretentious boutiques that close at 5pm and flooded with nerds on their way to a book signing. Could very well be the worst place in the city if you’re looking to get your public shit on. But I was determined. I started scrambling to find the nearest public restroom, bouncing around like a shit-filled pinball.

I haven’t run that fast since the 2am “Cum Over” text I received a few weeks prior. It was an ugly run though. My ass cheeks were clenched so tightly together they could have turned rock into diamond, which didn’t allow much bend in my legs. My arms were swinging back and forth violently. I looked like a fucking Nutcracker or a Nazi. Or a Nazi Nutcracker. I was fucking desperate.

Then I had an idea to ease the pressure on my anus.

Mistake #4: The Idea to Ease the Pressure on My Anus

I may be preaching to the choir here but having the opportunity to pee when you have to shit can sometimes grant you more time before the inevitable happens. Taking a leak allows you to allot more security to your anus instead of spreading yourself thin by worrying about it coming out on both sides.

So I searched for, and eventually found, a small, semi-public crevice between two buildings where I quickly whipped out my wiener and started letting it fly. I looked up in temporary relief only to realize that there was a large glass window peering into the building I was pissing on. The window served absolutely no rational purpose and to this day I’m convinced the universe constructed it moments before just to fuck up my life.

I peered into the window and saw the top of a shimmering bald head. The shimmering head stood up to be the largest, most imposing man I’ve ever seen. The guy may have been bigger than the pending shit I was holding back. Dude looked identical to John Coffey in the Green Mile. Except he wasn’t standing up to heal the pressure from my ass, he was standing up to kick my fucking ass.

I looked up at him, knowing that my fate was sealed. I looked him dead in the eye, gave him a surrendering smile, closed my eyes, exhaled and opened the gate to my asshole. Shit sprayed out of my ass like champagne in a Championship locker room.

And for a brief 4 seconds or so, nothing else mattered. I was free. I had let go of all the societal pressures telling me not to shit when I need to and just did it my way. I had escaped Shawshank, on my own terms. I was at complete euphoric peace with the world. I forgot about everything: my shitty job, my credit card debt, my image, and just shit. I Danced Shit As If No one was Watching. If I live to be 100 years old, I’m not sure I’ll ever feel such immediate all-encompassing gratification like that ever again.

(The mammoth of a man was nowhere to be found, and I’m almost positive my anus planted a hallucination in my brain in the form of Lawrence Taylor that would allow it to relieve the intense pressure. Sneaky, asshole. You win again.)

Mistake #5: Thinking the Euphoria Would Last

After my colon had purged out everything but my vital organs, my euphoria quickly turned into the most humiliating period of my life. My brain started to recognize the warm sludge that had poured down my leg onto my new Nike’s. Well-to-do families were passing by me on the busy sidewalk but disgrace prohibited me from looking anyone in the face. I thought I heard a few “Oh My God!”s, but it was tough to hear exactly what was said over the deafening shame.

“Taxi!” I screamed, my voice quivering.

A taxi pulled over and I jumped in. I closed the door and the smell immediately flooded the car. The smell was so intoxicating that it would have been less obvious that I pooped myself if I started smearing it all over the cab driver’s face.

“How was your night!” said the most patient cab driver I’ve ever met.

I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me because he knew I shit myself or he was just the most oblivious person on the planet. So I told him the truth.

“Pretty shitty, actually”

When he pulled up to my apartment the cab meter read “$15.40”. I gave the guy $40, and would have given him another $40 if I had it.

I ran up to my front porch where God continued to punish me.

Mistake #6: Undressing on the Front Porch

I immediately kicked off my shoes, and dropped my pants and undies simultaneously. What I saw was amazing. One leg was completely shit-free, as skinny and pale white as someone who hadn’t shit themselves. The other leg looked like it belonged to Don Cheadle, fully covered in dark, heinous smelling feces. Together, my legs looked like a fucking Hoodsie ice cream cup: half chocolate, half vanilla. And if you want to continue the metaphor, my small wooden spoon hung pathetically down the center.

I started laughing hysterically. There’s something about shitting all down your leg that forbids you from taking yourself too seriously. I was legit almost in tears. Until I heard the front door open.

My roommate walks out dressed like a Brooks Brothers model. He looks over at what could only be described as a war scene.

“Dude, I shit my pants in the middle of Harvard Square”, I admit (as if I had a choice).

His face turns a concerned white. Not really the response I was expecting, but I guess “How to Respond When Your Roommate Shits Himself” was never in our textbooks growing up. Then it hit me.

Mistake #7: Being a Fucking Idiot

My roommate is the kind of dude who wears Asics to a funeral. The least preppy dude I know. That’s why I should have been surprised to see him dressed out of character. But I didn’t connect the dots. I finally pieced it together when I saw the beautiful brunette he frequently reminded me he was taking out on a date that night follow him out the door. We made blatant eye contact and she let out the most dramatically audible gasp I’ve ever heard. I cupped my penis, as if that was the most shameful part of the scene. I was at a complete loss for words so I muttered out the most pathetic, emasculating sentence that’s ever came out of my mouth:

“Uh, I had an accident.”

My roommate shuffled the absolute smokeshow out the door making every attempt to obstruct her vision, like a bodyguard protecting Bieber from the paparazzi. I remained frozen in humiliation, dick in hand, and continued to call attention to my presence. “Have a nice night”, I said sheepishly, attempting to sound like a human. Both of them ignored it.

Good Decision #1: Showering

I tiptoed inside and took the longest, most glorious shower fathomable. The water poured over me, turning into a muddy substance as it forced itself down the drain, washing me of my sin. I’d imagine the scene looked something like the Chilean miners’ first shower after being trapped underground for two months. A complete Reawakening. I got dressed into a shit-less outfit and texted my friends in hopes of making a monumental comeback.

Me: “You guys still at the bar?”

Friend: “Ya, we’re just about to take shits”
Friend: “Sorry, *shots”

Realizing I was going to be the butt the joke all night I decided to stay in and watch Grown Ups 2, which was by far the worst decision I made all night.

My Final Mistake

Writing this for everyone to see.

Matt Keohan Avatar
Matt’s love of writing was born during a sixth grade assembly when it was announced that his essay titled “Why Drugs Are Bad” had taken first prize in D.A.R.E.’s grade-wide contest. The anti-drug people gave him a $50 savings bond for his brave contribution to crime-fighting, and upon the bond’s maturity 10 years later, he used it to buy his very first bag of marijuana.