Times I Shat My Pants #7

The Price of Shame

It all started when I wet myself outside school, deliberately. A few afterschool stragglers watched my groin’s avant-garde aqua display, while I wailed “WHY? Why me?” Which remains a valid question.

As a 14-year-old oddball, those dirt-cheap laughs were plugging some gap in nature or nurture. Laugh at me or with me, I didn’t give a shit. Until, a crowd of 5 requested just that. Another day after school, I pissed myself again to light applause, and the audience cried out for an encore from the backstage.  

The mob was baying for poop. “Go on shit, Sam, please shit yourself. Please,” my cool, older-seeming friend pleaded, so earnestly, like I would be doing him a massive favour. It was billed as my most daring stunt yet, but I needed to get something out of it, maybe only to frame it as a bet in retellings.

"Alright, I want… a… samosa for it."

It has been drawn to my attention that I am slightly more partial to a samosa than most.* In hindsight, I set my fee a little low. 1/5 of a samosa is a steal for such gritty, intimate street theatre. “…and a packet of Chewitts!” I added, realising I’d undervalued my services.

With a theatrical shake of the head, I walked on, leaving only groans behind me. A turd unremarkable in every respect, except its bounty, slumped out the back of my PE shorts. As soundless as a space impact, it hit the ground. From that moment forward I had never not shat my pants for a samosa ever again.

Disbelief got in the way of the laughter, no one really went ape shit cray-zay. They just about hit regular human shit cray-zay. Nowhere near the uproar I’d hoped for. 

One mate was so busy convincing me that he missed the drop. Stood forlorn over a sorry little plop, which seemed to share his sentiment, he begged for another. Solicit me to shit my pants with a Samosa once, shame on you; solicit me to shit my pants with a Samosa twice, shame on me.

The rest of the journey home was oddly solemn. I think no one believed I’d really done it. The solid evidence was there for all to smell, coalescing with the liquid. 

One of the guys complained about my scent, which seemed a bit unfair. What with me stood there chafing within my own excrement almost entirely for his entertainment. Oh, my bad if the smell is inconveniencing you.

As I ducked my mum shuffling into my house, I felt a flutter of what was later explained to me as ‘shame’. After the fact, I tried to work a non-disclosure agreement into my contract, but word spread around school like a bad smell. And I never did get that samosa. Bastards. Or those fucking Chewitts.

*I wonder if stand here today as the only person in human history who has ever shat themself on the proviso of receiving a samosa and/or a packet of Chewitts. If not, please get in touch, brother or sister.