Point, Baby Counterpoint: Shitting One’s Pants

Oh God.

Bbbhhthhbthhh. Ga?

Oh God no.

Baaaababaaaaaa. Tshhhhh.

I thought I only had to fart!


Did anyone notice? Is Daryl looking at me like he noticed? Can he smell it? Oh sweet Christ he can smell it.

Poopoo! Bbbbththbthth.

Think, Jon, think! This is nothing. Nothing. You’ve been in worse. That dinner with the Takeba-Sanada reps? That was a travesty, this is just a mild inconvenience. You can solve this.


Get yourself to a bathroom, get out of your shorts, and get back to your life.


Nope! Nope! This is worse! This is the worst of all things.


Daryl’s definitely noticed by now. If he can’t smell shit then he can surely smell my anguish. God I hate him.


I can feel it on my leg.


There’s no coming back from this, is there? This is my life now. Jon. The Pants Shitter.


This must be what people with cancer feel like.

Dada. Doodoo.

There’s a certain relief in it, really. I have no more actions to take. Just let the disdain and mockery begin when it OH FUCKLORD he’s leaving, he’s leaving, now’s my chance!

Chaaaaan? Chane! Brrrbrb.

Fuck you, inevitability! I am the master of my own pants! And I say they will be shit-free, forever more!

Good Lord it’s in my shoe.
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