April 11, 2008
I shit my pants
Originally published May 22, 2003
The four of us agreed to meet at the Shoney's in Hardeeville, South Carolina, for breakfast before we all loaded into one van to drive to Charleston for a golf tournament. We played that benefit tournament every year and we always did it the same way.
I ate scrambled eggs smothered in mushrooms. I always ate scrambled eggs smothered in mushrooms at that restaurant. The breakfast was good. I even went back for seconds from the breakfast bar.
We teed of and I felt fine. I was playing well. We played 11 holes and I was beginning to feel a slight Gut Rumble. On the 12th hole, I sunk a crucial birdie putt and leaned over to pick the ball out of the hole. That's when it hit me. I had to GO! I had to go RIGHT THEN!
I started toward some azaleia bushes off the green, broke into a run when I became really desperate, but I never made it. I puckered my butt-cheeks as tightly as I could, but it was no use. My pucker-valve failed on me and I shit all over myself.
It wasn't like laying a keilbasa sausage in the old hip pocket. It was more like having a couple of cans of Hormel Chili spraying down your pants legs so hard that it ricocheted off the ground and sprayed back UP your pants legs. It was disgusting.
Luckily for me, I was wearing black pants and the country club had a shower in the locker room. My partner, holding his nose the entire way and laughing his ass off, drove me back to the clubhouse. I climbed into the shower with all my clothes on except my shirt (See? I really don't like to wear shirts!). I had shit in my golf shoes. I threw my socks and underwear away.
I cleaned up and went back out on the course, wet as a drowned duck, to finish the round. I birdied the next hole, then won the Long Drive contest with a fluke shot on the hole after that. The ball bounced off the back lip of a sand trap, shot like a bullet from a rifle, hit the cart path three times, and rolled out into the fairway 50 yards ahead of anyone else.
My partner suggested that I should shit my pants more often. It seemed to bring out the best in me. He may have been right. I also won the Closest to the Pin prize on the last par three I played. I birdied that hole, too.
Now, I ask you. How many women would tell THAT story on themselves?
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