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I Crapped My Pants At A Party And It Made Me Cool Somehow?

crap pants party

It’s frustrating to know that you’ve already peaked, but unfortunately that’s the position I’m in. College has been fun, don’t get me wrong. I’ve made some lifelong friends and some lifelong enemies, had fun nights that I can’t remember, and earned a pointless degree in a useless major. I love college; it’s been an absolute blast. But college life just can’t hold a handle (yes, handle) to my days in high school. I feel washed up.

My junior year of high school, I shit my pants at a party after prom. It was easily the greatest night of my life, and I may never top it. I peaked.

I still remember it like it was yesterday. The sights, the sounds, the smells… It was a night for the books. Not necessarily any good books, but it was a night for the books.

Me and my at-the-time girlfriend awkwardly danced to Wiz Khalifa songs on the dance floor all night. It was a horror show of painfully white dorkiness. Prom itself was so-so. Not nearly as eventful as American Pie lead me to believe it would be. Fuckin’ dishonest Hollywood strikes again.

The real magic started to happen once we went to an afterparty. My girlfriend’s best friend Lynn was hosting it. She had those weird-ass parents that were okay with teens drinking and smoking in their house because they were the “cool” mom and dad. They’d even join in on the festivities. Parents like that scare the fuck out of me. It’s just not natural.

That fateful night was the first night I ever drank. My stupid 16-year-old self didn’t know my limits, so I chugged too much booze in too short of a time, thinking I wasn’t even drinking that much. It all hit me at once. All the sudden, I’m in the middle of a packed house party and I’m convinced I’m about to die. Everything is blurry. My palms were sweaty, my knees were weak, my arms were heavy. “Lose Yourself” was playing, so that might have played a role.

I’ll never understand why my body chose “crap my pants.” You would think my biological wheel would have landed on vomit or urine — the two classics. But for reasons we’ll never know, I crapped my pants like a terrified toddler in the middle of a crowded social function. I don’t remember much after that; just waking up the next day smelling like a port-o-potty at a trashy carnival.

You would think this would’ve murdered my reputation in cold blood, but teenagers are the dumbest people on Earth, so this somehow helped my reputation? Don’t ask me to explain why; I still don’t know. All I know is that instead of disgusted looks, I got laughs and high fives that following Monday. I guess it just fed into a class clown/party animal persona that I never truly lived up to again because being a national hero at your high school for pooping your pants really is hard to top.

I’ll never be that popular again. It’s all downhill from here. I peaked too early. I’m like the Orson Welles of crapping my pants, which is a pretty sophisticated cinema reference for an article about poop.

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Wally Bryton

TFM’s most beloved writer

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