text: I would like to regale you with a tale of heroism, courage, betrayal, regret, and loss. We find our start at the beginning of a quiet Saturday morning. I was working the opening shift, so it would’ve been 6am, to be exact. I clocked in, found a suitable register, and turned on my light, ready for another day in retail. Just as I had turned my light on, I felt a rumble in my tunnel; a small gassy surprise if you will. I said to myself “Awesome! I get to fart!” Now, to anyone who hasn’t opened at a grocery store, it can be a very boring first few hours, so a nice fart may very well be the most excitement one gets that morning. But boy was I wrong this time. I felt it reach the exit hatch, and as standard procedure, I *squeezed* and let it go. “Oh,” I thought nervously, “that one felt kind of weird.” But every fart feels a little different, like little gaseous snowflakes. Perhaps this was just a special snowflake, with its very own feel and texture, unlike any other before. So I gave it no more thought and decided I would help out the girl in Starbucks, by putting the chairs down from the table. As I took a step however, I felt it--it was a mix between wet, gooey, and creamy. I knew immediately what it was. That little snowflake brought an uninvited guest. But I continued towards the task I had set my mind to, as to not draw attention to myself, all the while devising a battle plan. After I had finished with the chairs, I asked the thankful girl if she wouldn’t mind watching my register, and calling me if anyone walks up, as I had to use the restroom rather urgently. She obliged, none the wiser to my terrible dilemma. I quickly made the shameful trek to the toilet, all the while being wary of any spillage that may occur. Thankfully there was none. The entire walk I could feel the mess caressing more and more of my lower buttocks. I knew I hadn’t much time, and I prayed that the bathroom would be empty. God, seeing me in my despair, certainly had pity and grace, for I had the privacy I greatly desired. I hastily grabbed a couple paper towels, dampened them, and rushed to the large stall. I unbuckled, unzipped, and undid my pants, and pulled them down. Instantly I was hit with the most putrid stench that would make even Krillin cry and a Muk vomit. Have you ever had a moment on the toilet that made you think, “When did I devour a dozen rotten eggs, and down them with 2 year spoiled milk?” This was one of those moments, except not on the toilet, but in my pants. I assessed the damage, and the boxers were totaled, but the undercarriage was salvageable. However, I wouldn’t have the time to fix everything now. The boxers were covered in a brown, gross, swamp like stain, so much so that I think I heard Shrek telling me to stay out. So, counting them as loss, I grabbed the paper towels and cleaned as much of the area where my legs meet as I could. But the paper towels only lasted so long, and I eventually had to resort to the half-ply excuse for toilet paper, and get as much as I could with that. Keep in mind; at this moment, there was a lonely register with its light on, that was meant to be manned. But that man--nay--that boy is hurriedly cleaning feces out of his pants. The half-ply wad had done very little in this endeavor, and seemed to instead deflect most of the work towards my hand, which was now covered. I knew I couldn’t stay any longer, so I threw the wad and paper towels in the toilet, gave it a careless flush, and redid my pants as best I could with one hand out of commission. I made my way to the sink, and washed my hands of the mess as much as could be done, short of dissolving my skin in acid. After composing myself, I returned to my check stand, pleasantly surprised by the lack of interruption during that ordeal. But it wasn’t done yet. I checked the schedule, and I had 2 hours to wait until someone else came in, so I could take a proper leave to the bathroom, and finish this battle. So I stood stewing in my own filth. My pants were soiled more than California’s Great Central Valley. But I took it like a man; a man who had crapped himself. I could feel the wetness start to dry, and the remaining bits begin to stick to my skin. Just by breathing deeply through my nose, I would be hit with the agonizing reminder of my mistake. I knew others could smell it, but I held a poker face, and did everything in my power to stay as far away from people as possible; a hard task as a cashier. It finally came time for my coworker to join me on the lines of duty--hehe, duty--and the second she was on her register I was off mine. “I’m going on break,” I said, making my way back to the battlegrounds. She replied, “Ok,” while looking at her watch, which I resented. I would’ve liked to have stolen a few extra minutes for this particular break, but now I was bound to the allotted 15. No matter. I quickly made my way back to the bathroom, tore half the roll of paper towels out, and got them wet once again. Back in my stall of solitude, I tore off my pants and started scrubbing as much as I could, until there was nothing left for me to do. Staring at my boxers, the source of the odor, I contemplated whether to abandon them, and be free--from the stench and more--or keep them, lest I experience an episode II: attack of a clone. I decided towards the latter, as I was not trusting my backside bets today. There were many a time in the past that I had gambled on farts, and won. I could’ve made millions with those odds at Vegas. But my streak was over; smeared by another kind of streak. Even though these boxers were going to be worn no more--which was sad, to say the least--I knew they had some fight left in them, in case of another attack that day. So doing all that could be done without a shower, lighter fluid and a match, I tossed the wad of paper towels in the same toilet, which had not flushed properly from round one. Usually I try to be courteous, and I would try to remedy the situation--as it was my fault--but I really didn’t care at this point. I flushed again for good measure, and the water went down an inch before starting to rise again. I got out of there as quickly as I could, as I was in enough crap for one day (don’t worry, all was well with it in the end). For the rest of my 8-hour shift, I had to act like I didn’t smell like a baby’s diaper that hadn’t been changed in a week, knowing full well that I did. At one point a lady came through my line and scrunched up her face, as one does when smelling something horrific, “Do you smell that?” She asked disgustedly. “It’s been like that since I got here,” I cleverly remarked. That last part never happened, but I had that response in my back pocket if ever the time arose. The rest of this story is full of truth, only embellished slightly for comedic effect. The moral of this anecdote is as such: don’t trust a fart; they’re all filthy liars, and if you can’t laugh at yourself, don’t do stupid things. Now you may be wondering, “What was *heroic* about that?! You crapped your pants.” Well, avid reader, it simply sounded better than, “a tale of stupidity.