Times I Shat My Pants #10

To Shit, or to Get off the Pot

After a few self-talks, my need to sit on a loo had just outweighed my need to sit on the sofa. When my big-fat mate sprung up waggling a joint that resembled its owner.

This was a now-shit, not a later-shit and I explained as much. But given the scale of the construction, shored deftly up with a spit and Rizzla scaffold, he was in no mood to wait. My mate rebounded his handiwork off thumb and forefinger to stress his point.        

And he made a great point. This difficult crossroads came at the stage of life when all of my interests were slightly different ways of smoking weed. My eyeline dragged between loo and zoot, while the gravity of this decision pulled my high mind through a cloud of tangents. I wasn't touching cloth, but I was certainly tugging on the tailor’s cuff. Then again, weed. “Fuck this shit, I’m coming,” I announced to my mate, who had already left some amount of time ago.

Under the spotlight of a street lamp, we passed the zoot around until its novelty fizzled away. None of my wisecracks got past the ideas stage, I had focus to keep.

With every part of my body unwinding, my hindmost sphincter would not stop griping about staying on duty. The rumblings of dissent were spreading along the crap-factory line. This disgruntled former-food was on the verge of staging a walk-out.

Nobody noticed I had slunk off, until the zoot was handed to thin air. Back at my friend’s gate, I fumbled about for a latch I could open blindfolded sober. This great undertaking split my attention, taking it from the matter pressing out of my butt. There in the unlit side alley, with mates giggling a fence-panel away, my butthole downed tools.

So much boggled pondering went into its arrival, this turd seemed to carry a weight beyond its grammage. This dark matter was a universal manifestation of my life choices. Life had offered up two options: smoke weed and shit yourself, or not smoke weed and not shit yourself. My choice was stowed, snugly away in my undercarriage. Bungling through the night, I came to terms with my decision. “This is the path you have chosen,” I said to the moon.

When I re-emerged from the house, the guilty panties were burning hot in my jacket pocket. Under the assumption I was being watched, I doubled back a few times, before making the drop in a neighbour’s recycling bin. Commando by pant-status, commando by nature.

Wearing a smirk that knows something you don’t, I accepted the last few harsh tokes on the joint. Despite knowing how this shitty anecdote would clean up, I kept it to myself and coughed out a chuckle.

“This ones for me,” I thought I had thought.

“What?” my friend said.

“Nothing.” I said.

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