My childhood was similar to many other kids out there.  I grew up in the suburbs, complete with parents who decided they hated each other early into my years of elementary, which the school’s idea of counseling was making me play air hockey with that weird kid every Wednesday.  But he owned an N64 and Pokemon Snap.  He was alright.  My first crush was still a firm believer in cooties by the fifth grade.  Either that or I simply lacked the appeal of the other fifth graders who were slightly above shitty on the Tech Deck skill scale.  But I digress.  The thing that made my childhood different than most was my reoccurring encounters with bodily waste.


 Pictured: my childhood

 

The first instance that stands out in my mind took place in kindergarten.  It was a simple time full of chocolate milk chugging and listening to Weird Al Yankovic.  But my innocence would soon be violently ripped away from me in an almost nightmarish sequence.  I remember it so clearly.  I was in the restroom, a palace of solitude at the time, being a big boy and peeing standing up all by myself.  Then, my soon-to-be nemesis walked in and started urinating in the lavatory to my right.  Taylor Johnson.  I didn’t know the rules of public restroom etiquette at the time, but if I had, I would have known something terrible was about to happen when he made eye contact and uttered the phrase, “Wanna see something?”  I was intrigued.  Before I knew it, he had made a sudden turn to left, immediately soaking the front of my pants.  My mother was forced to bring in dry pants and tighty-whities.  Soon after, he moved to Texas.  I knew it was because he was afraid of me.  I was about to come off the fucking leash on that kid.  Though, he did have a Sega Genesis.  I would have gone easy on him.

 

Another, perhaps, repressed memory involved my half black cousin, which I’m pretty sure gives me like a one fourth black street rep.  I’m pretty sure the streets work like that.  Anyway, he wound up covering my favorite shirt in piss through similar circumstances, but this situation lacked the creepy line beforehand.  But the ruined clothing was a Wolverine shirt.  Fucking Wolverine!

 

I was later scarred through another event in elementary school, which in hindsight is more confusing than anything.  I was, yet again, in the public restroom, a breeding ground for misfortune.  But on this occasion, I sat on a stall taking care of good ol’ number two.  Some kids came in the bathroom and started banging on the stall door, yelling, and trying to look through the cracks.  Although a truly traumatizing experience at the time, which made me afraid of pooping in public for awhile, I’m more confused than anything now.  Why would three or four other dudes want to see me take a shit?  It makes me happy to think about their more than likely current confused sexuality.

 

The next two tales involve heroic acts of determination and manhood.  Also, shit.

 

Back when Pokemon was still huge and we all got boners for the trading card game, I shortly fell into the craze as well (who am I kidding, I still get raging hard-ons when looking at holographic Charizards).  My mom was driving me and my brothers to our local mall, where we were seeing how much we could trade in our Pokemon cards for.  As we pulled down the street and got to the first light, I had a startling revelation: I had forgotten my Pokemon cards at home.  My mom wouldn’t drive back for me.  My window of opportunity was shrinking; I had to think quickly.  So, I did the thing any self-respecting fifth grader would do.  I shit myself.  In my defense, it was more of a shart, but now we’re dancing on a fine line.  It doesn’t matter.  We turned around.  I got the fucking job done.

 

My last story, yet again, involves the dreaded public restroom.  Once again, I found myself taking a poo in the stall while in elementary school.  Business was carrying on as usual.  Until I reached for the toilet paper, which I soon realized was only the cardboard shell of its former glory.  At this point, I think something needs recognition.  Some cultures circumcise their penises when they become a man.  Others stick their hands into a glove filled with fire ants.  I became a man that day when I took the phrase, “be a man; use your hand,” to heart.   I had thought no one was in the bathroom when I exited the stall.  I was soon corrected when the boy at the sink instantly called the obvious that there was human excrement on my hands.  In vain, I improved and  tried to explain that I had finger-painted in art earlier that day.  He ran out, and I scrubbed and scrubbed until there was no trace of my post-digestion.

 

Despite the odds, and a few more years of social awkwardness, I somehow wound up turning out alright.  I think the lesson I want to teach anyone reading this is that no matter what level of human waste you are exposed to as a child, you can still turn out alright.  There is always hope.  Who am I kidding; I was a fluke.  You’re probably fucking weird.  Weirdo.

 

My childhood was similar to many other kids out there.  I grew up in the suburbs, complete with parents who decided they hated each other early into my years of elementary, which the school’s idea of counseling was making me play air hockey with that weird kid every Wednesday.  But he owned an N64 and Pokemon Snap.  He was alright.  My first crush was still a firm believer in cooties by the fifth grade.  Either that or I simply lacked the appeal of the other fifth graders who were slightly above shitty on the Tech Deck skill scale.  But I digress.  The thing that made my childhood different than most was my reoccurring encounters with bodily waste.

 

The first instance that stands out in my mind took place in kindergarten.  It was a simple time full of chocolate milk chugging and listening to Weird Al Yankovic.  But my innocence would soon be violently ripped away from me in an almost nightmarish sequence.  I remember it so clearly.  I was in the restroom, a palace of solitude at the time, being a big boy and peeing standing up all by myself.  Then, my soon-to-be nemesis walked in and started urinating in the lavatory to my right.  Taylor Johnson.  I didn’t know the rules of public restroom etiquette at the time, but if I had, I would have known something terrible was about to happen when he made eye contact and uttered the phrase, “Wanna see something?”  I was intrigued.  Before I knew it, he had made a sudden turn to left, immediately soaking the front of my pants.  My mother was forced to bring in dry pants and tighty-whities.  Soon after, he moved to Texas.  I knew it was because he was afraid of me.  I was about to come off the fucking leash on that kid.  Though, he did have a Sega Genesis.  I would have gone easy on him.

 

Another, perhaps, repressed memory involved my half black cousin, which I’m pretty sure gives me like a one fourth black street rep.  I’m pretty sure the streets work like that.  Anyway, he wound up covering my favorite shirt in piss through similar circumstances, but this situation lacked the creepy line beforehand.  But the ruined clothing was a Wolverine shirt.  Fucking Wolverine!

 

I was later scarred through another event in elementary school, which in hindsight is more confusing than anything.  I was, yet again, in the public restroom, a breeding ground for misfortune.  But on this occasion, I sat on a stall taking care of good ol’ number two.  Some kids came in the bathroom and started banging on the stall door, yelling, and trying to look through the cracks.  Although a truly traumatizing experience at the time, which made me afraid of pooping in public for awhile, I’m more confused than anything now.  Why would three or four other dudes want to see me take a shit?  It makes me happy to think about their more than likely current confused sexuality.

 

The next two tales involve heroic acts of determination and manhood.  Also, shit.

 

Back when Pokemon was still huge and we all got boners for the trading card game, I shortly fell into the craze as well (who am I kidding, I still get raging hard-ons when looking at holographic Charizards).  My mom was driving me and my brothers to our local mall, where we were seeing how much we could trade in our Pokemon cards for.  As we pulled down the street and got to the first light, I had a startling revelation: I had forgotten my Pokemon cards at home.  My mom wouldn’t drive back for me.  My window of opportunity was shrinking; I had to think quickly.  So, I did the thing any self-respecting fifth grader would do.  I shit myself.  In my defense, it was more of a shart, but now we’re dancing on a fine line.  It doesn’t matter.  We turned around.  I got the fucking job done.

 

My last story, yet again, involves the dreaded public restroom.  Once again, I found myself taking a poo in the stall while in elementary school.  Business was carrying on as usual.  Until I reached for the toilet paper, which I soon realized was only the cardboard shell of its former glory.  At this point, I think something needs recognition.  Some cultures circumcise their penises when they become a man.  Others stick their hands into a glove filled with fire ants.  I became a man that day when I took the phrase, “be a man; use your hand,” to heart.   I had thought no one was in the bathroom when I exited the stall.  I was soon corrected when the boy at the sink instantly called the obvious that there was human excrement on my hands.  In vain, I improved and  tried to explain that I had finger-painted in art earlier that day.  He ran out, and I scrubbed and scrubbed until there was no trace of my post-digestion.

 

Despite the odds, and a few more years of social awkwardness, I somehow wound up turning out alright.  I think the lesson I want to teach anyone reading this is that no matter what level of human waste you are exposed to as a child, you can still turn out alright.  There is always hope.  Who am I kidding; I was a fluke.  You’re probably fucking weird.  Weirdo.