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Strove to find a way to punch people in the face by using the Internet.

10/07/2003

DIARY OF INDIGNITIES
March 17, 2003: Some people stop shitting their pants as a child. Me, I've always been a rebel.

It had been a rough year for me. I had been out of work for six months, scrounging what few freelance gigs thriving metropolis Gainesville, Fla. offers while watching my skimpy savings dwindle down to about nothing. I had thrown an enormous amount of unappreciated energy into helping a bunch of spoiled scenesters try and start a half-baked alternative monthly paper, only to have the editor and publisher piss all over my face in a way just slightly preferable to having someone actually physically piss all over my face. My grandfather, a smart, decent and urbane guy who liked playing the piano at cocktail parties, had become ill, disconcertingly up and croaking on just a few weeks' notice.

Right around all this, at the point when I befouled myself, I had been working for a month or two at a cool job that didn't pay much, didn't offer insurance and didn't give any sick or vacation time. I had my own office and the gig was generally fine, but I was looking for employment that offered minimal benefits, at least. Not too much was presenting itself, but I mailed off a few resumes here and there and kept my eyes open.

One of those mailings finally paid off (I think it was the delicious pork chop I had stuffed in the envelope - you job seekers out there give it a try) and I got called in for an interview. It was scheduled for a Monday morning at the offices of a water management district (apparently the most respected and prestigious of all the water management districts, and you know what that means) (no, I don't know what it means either), about an hour's drive from my place.

Monday morning came, a sparkling dawn full of fresh promise and new experiences. Yes, the fresh promise of a fresh doody in my trousers and the new experience of smelling my own waste as it seeped through my drawers.

I awoke that morning feeling a bit off, but chalked it up to pre-interview jitters. I performed my ritual morning preparations, which as usual included showering, brushing my teeth, a bikini wax and two porterhouse steaks. My stomach rumbled once or twice, but again this was easily dismissed as nervousness and not the foreshadowing growl of an incipient volcano of poopy. I put on my best and only suit, woven from hair donated by orphan Afghani cancer victims, gave my thinning hair one last fashionable tousle and shined up my robotic foot. I was ready to meet my new employers and convince them I was in fact a productive member of society, perfectly hireable, sane and inclined to spend my days slaving happily away over a hot keyboard and never, ever e-mailing amusing pictures of cripples or retards to Todd Campisi.

About halfway into my journey - remember, a journey out of the bleak hellhole that was my life and into the kind of bright, shiny future depicted by Disneyworld's World of Tomorrow and the movie Blade Runner - I stopped to get some gas. How confidently did i emerge from my truck, resplendent in my fine suit! How authoritatively did I unscrew the gas cap! How assuredly did I thrust the gas nozzle into the hole! How firm my grip on the handle thingy! How bold the fart I let squeak out! Ah yes, the fart.

Unexpectedly, the fart turned out to have physical substance. I stood there, stunned and unbelieving, aghast that after three decades of proper bowel etiquette my nether regions would turn rebellious, choosing this most promising of days to dump their stinky cargo.

Not only that, but I still had to pay for the gas. I squinched my butt cheeks together as best I could, waddled inside the gas station smiled at the nice black ladies working there and held them in very firm eye contact as the transaction was completed. I then shuffled out like Charlie Chaplin with an ass full of pudding and made for home.

The trip home was quick. I sat in my squishy filth, unsure of whether to laugh or cry. Other drivers seemed to be staring, accusing me of being the Poo Poo Boy. "You're the Poo Poo Boy," their eyes said. "The stinky rotten Poo Poo Boy! You made a stinky in your pants and God hates you!"

Once home I surveyed the damage. There was suprisingly little mass, and what had escaped the confines of my underwear was mostly liquid, so it wasn't too bad. Still a little more shit in the pants than you'd want to have at a job interview, but not too bad.

I sat on the toilet for the next three hours while a geyser of runny shit blasted out of my rear end with the kind of force and velocity usually reserved for fighting forest fires and contemplated my life. "Perhaps I shouldn't have stolen the golden pentagram ring from that old Gypsy woman after all," I thought.

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