The IBS Diaries Vol. 17: Costume Party

Intern DC10/28/2019 7:00 PM

Welcome to a special Halloween edition of the IBS diaries. Equally as horrifying as every other diary, everyone’s just wearing costumes this time. Need to dedicate an extra minute of the grace period to undo your onesie or inflatable ostrich legs or whatever you may be sporting this holiday season. Gather round as this week’s pant-shitter, who we’ll be referring to as…wait for it…Anonymous, takes the floor.

First off, I’d like to thank you for un-repressing this memory that I forgot I had from a crazy time in my life, 2004. I was a Junior at a college in North Carolina, it was Sunday during the NFL season and I’ve been drinking since the first pregame show started at 11am that morning. My buddies and I would regularly spend 15 hours there on football Sundays; getting there for the pregame, staying for games @ 1/4/8, leaving after the final football minute ticked away in the wee hours of Monday morning. By Junior year we were savvy enough with our class scheduling to allow for a Monday free of any serious obligations.

Clearing your Monday classes so you could drink all day/night every Sunday is the ultimate smart idiot move. And drinking 15 hours straight can still be considered responsible drinking as long as you don’t let it get in the way of your school life. Not condoning it, but I do it.

The date of this particular Sunday you ask? 10/31/04, Halloween. I’ve never been much of a costume guy so that year, in honor of the Red Sox first World Series title in 86 years I went as “Red Sox Guy” which consisted of an Ortiz Jersey, Sox hat, and a Red Sox banner I had fashioned into a cape type thing. My pants situation was jeans. At this point I’d like to clarify that I don’t have IBS and I’ve never had a pants shitting situation before or since but because of this story I can definitely relate to those who suffer with this terribly syndrome. Ok back to it, it’s Halloween 2004 and the Steelers have just ended the Patriots 18 game win streak dating back to 2003. Next to me on my bar stool was a cute redheaded sorority girl who happened to be a Steelers fan, her costume was “Sexy Steeler Girl”, no relation.
She and I have had some classes together but never really hung out, just a coincidence that she was at the bar with her friends, as I was with mine. We were going back and forth during game with friendly banter about each other’s chosen football squads when she politely asks if my buddies and I would like to join her and her friends at an off-campus Halloween party, a quick walk from where we were. Since we were already dressed for the party, instead of staying for the Sunday night game as we normally would we decided to oblige and left after the Pats/Steelers game ended around 8pm. That walk is where it starting going downhill. After about 10 hours of beer drinking and bar food eating and not using the bathroom all day, the tummy rumbles kicked in just as I lit up my cigarette for the walk to the party.

Wild move by Anonymous here. Tobacco loosens the bowels at lightning speed. One hit of a cigarette takes off an easy minute from the 2 minute warning. Pretty much like swallowing an immediate-release laxative during Crunch Time. You’re just asking for it at that point.

Grace Period Chart:

Potential Witnesses: His friends, the girl he’s about to fork, her friends.

Pants Situation: Jeans. Great for compaction but not a walk in the park for the cover-up.

Current form of transit: Walking in a crowd. Pro move – tell them you have to run to an alley to pee then just drop a steamer next to someone’s garage with a Sorry Note next to it.

Nearest restroom: A college house in the midst of a costume party. The most desperate of measures.

Having not been accustomed to the “grace period” prior to this I had no idea what I was in for or how long I had, I just knew that I was about equidistance from the bar that I just left, to the house party I was going to and neither were optimal shitting destinations especially with girls in tow. My plan was to power through and hope for the best.

Livin’ on a prayer should never be option A, but that’s not to say we haven’t all been there before. Everyone thinks they have it under control until shit’s dripping down their leg. Always have a plan.

We get to the party and it’s a scene I’ve seen 100 times at collage, a house full of kegs, half naked girls and sloppy college dudes hitting on them, except this time everyone is in costume. Upon entering the dwelling I immediately try to assess the bathroom situation, there are two floors and the bathroom downstairs is ruled out because it’s too close to the action, right next to a beirut table, so I go upstairs. Upstairs the toilet is overflowing with someone else’s IBS leftovers and is completely unusable. I decide shitting next to the beirut table it better than shitting in my jeans so I head that way only to find “Sexy Steeler Girl” has commandeered the table and wants me to be her partner! In 2004 college times this amounts to a hook up opportunity that I simply cannot refuse. But first I need to take care of this monster growling from my bowels.

Probably a good idea. Never wanna shit on a girl if you don’t have to. Word from the wise.

So now both bathrooms are OFF LIMITS and I do the only thing a rational 20-year-old who is about 12 beers deep would do. I tell her I’m on board after I go out for a smoke and I look for a place to shit outside. When I step outside the second hand smoke from the smoking circle on the back porch hits me in the face and its game over. That small inhalation of some else’s cigarette sent my tummy into a frenzy and I sharted before I even made it to the tree line that separated the properties.

Once that happened I “decided” to not fight it anymore and let it flow before I could get my pants around my ankles. Under the cover of darkness and some tall oak tress I finished my business and discarded the soiled clothing in the bushes. With my Red Sox Banner now wrapped snugly around my waste I started the long trek back to my place alone and in shame.

The taking off of the cape felt symbolic. Like he went from hero to mere mortal after the accident. Live and learn. There’s always the rest of your life to figure it out.

The banner was discarded upon arriving home but my Ortiz Jerson thankfully remained unscathed, which is more than I can say for my dignity or my chances with “Sexy Steeler Girl.”

Awful repercussions at the end of this tale. Lost a pair of pants AND the girl. You know poor Sexy Steeler Girl is still sitting on a couch somewhere wondering what she did wrong, unbeknownst to her that Red Sox Man just sharted in the backyard. It’s not you, it’s the syndrome Steelers girl. Another win on the board for IBS this week. Hate to see it. Happy Halloween to IBS America, we’ll catch you next week once we start getting into post-Thanksgiving dinner IBS stories. Brace yourselves.

Have you or someone you love almost shit or almost shit their pants? Send in your stories to djconrad41@gmail.com

Old entries:

IBS Diaries Vol 5: Blizzard Beach

IBS Diaries Vol 6: Hotel HotBox

IBS Diaries Vol 7: Hand Soap Showers

IBS Diaries Vol 8: Fried Egg Run

The IBS Diaries Vol. 9: The IBS Queen