A few years ago, I decided to make Thanksgiving a stay home holiday. It's the one holiday that I refuse to drive several hours, sleep in someone else's bed, and end up more exhausted than I was before my day off work. So, Herschel and I planned to wake up, wear the same clothes we slept in, and make all of our favorite meals. It was going to be an awesome day.
And, it was an awesome day, indeed. I really enjoy days that I don't have to shower or wear nice clothes. I think it stems from my upbringing. See, my mom likes hygiene. No, I mean she really likes it. She has not skipped a shower in 35 years, I'm certain of it. So, I like to be rebellious and hang out looking like a "D12," as my mom calls it.
I'm not going to lie, when I feel like being repulsive, I really do it up right. On days that I'm really D12ing it, I sometimes won't notice how gross I am until I find myself in public. Like, I'll walk into the grocery store and as soon as the unforgiving public lightning hits my skin I realize I have a circular peanut butter oil stain on my shirt, and that I can smell my scalp if I turn my head quickly enough.
Needless to say, that’s about how I looked Thanksgiving. I have the kind of hair that gets greasy within six hours of a shower, so my hair looked like Nick Nolte's mug shot. I was wearing an oversized maroon shirt, oversize, navy blue cut off sweat pants, and tan slippers that went half way up my calf. I was atrocious.
So, after dinner, Herschel and I decided to walk the dogs. I traded my slippers in for winter boots and threw on a coat. Of course, I didn't realize how gross I was until I was half way down the block. Who am I kidding, I wouldn't have cared anyway.
Two blocks away from my home, I remembered that exercise was a natural laxative. Thanksgiving dinner 2010 was already trying to make its second debut.
Look, there comes a time in everyone's life when they are in a less than favorable place to be dropping a deuce, but the fact of the matter is, sometimes you just have to go. In the moments leading up to my poop squat, I wasn't thinking much other than, who had the most private looking yard? To me it’s just natural, if you have to go, you have to go.
In days since, I have pondered what the difference is between me and others. Trust me, nobody supports my decision to poo' when needed. In fact, Herschel (not so secretly) thinks I'm insane. My friend Zach thinks I'm ridiculous. My mom can't handle the truth, and I can hear JoAnna flipping pages in her psych book in hopes of diagnosing me. I'm not sure if I'm just lawless and uncouth; if people are too uptight about pooping; or, if I just have to poop worse than most people. Whatever the answer is, Thanksgiving 2010 I dropped my pants in daylight, and pooped in someone's yard.
Let me explain Herschel's reaction. At first, he turned forward and took off, running away from me. After about 50 feet he had a change of heart. I don't know if his mind blocked out what was happening or if he suddenly decided we were lovers and, therefore, we poop as a team and pee as a team. Whatever the reason, Herschel came back to me.
Now, I was feeling pretty successful when I dropped the penultimate turd. I knew I just had my final act left, my post poop urination, and I was in the clear. Halfway through my victory stream, however, things went south. For whatever reason, out of the front door of the house across the street from where I was now peeing, came a man. This guy exploded onto the front porch, said something I couldn't understand, laughed at an inappropriate volume, and then turned around and went back inside. Now, since then I have tried to think of a time when I had run onto my porch, screamed gibberish, laughed and ran back in. I've never done that and I have no idea why anyone would. Sadly, I will never know.
What I do know, is that because of that man and his bizarre porch behavior, I peed my pants. Consequently, Thanksgiving 2010 was not only the year I pooped in the neighbor's yard, but it was also the year I peed my pants.
In hindsight, I realize that greasy hair, dirty mismatched clothing, and shitting in a residential neighborhood wouldn't fair well in a psychiatric evaluation, but, whatever, I had to go.
