I'll never forget the Friday afternoon I shit my pants. The chaotic trauma of attempting to control uncontrollable bowels is an ego-transforming experience. I had finished a huge vegetarian burrito. My body sent a distress signal in the form of a smelly fart that poo-poo was on the way. For a split second I thought of using the washroom at the burrito restaurant, but I convinced myself that it would be better of to drive the short four to five minutes home and unload in the comforts of my own, clean toilet. I hadn't had a problem controlling my poo since I was four.

Tragically, I miscalculated my fate. My next fart was not just foul air. It contained poo-poo, and I squeezed my ass tighter than I ever had in my life. I was halfway home and there was no turning back. I had to make it home or I was gonna blow right there in my car. I began to sweat profusely, and my stomach gargled like a witch's evil brew. I felt like a volcano and clinched the thought of ass and pussy covered with burrito diarrhea.

As I approached my house, it seemed to move further and further away. It was like that scene in Poltergiest where the mom is runnig towards her kids' room but he hallway keeps getting longer and longer…I prayed I could keep my ass closed long enough to make it inside my house, but my brain decided this feat was not possible and ordered the hatch open. I screamed, "Oh my God!" and stumbled out of the car, groping my ass like a saddle and waddled to my front door. Boy, did neighbors get a show. I couldn't get my key in the door, and dropped my purse. Once inside, I peeled of my pants and witnessed a humbling site of shit that looked like a plate of burnt pinto beans. I felt neither embrassed nor shamed. Just emptied and in awe of life and what a pile of shit really can be.

Jennifer Brandon (BLUNT)