Saturday mornings I go to a fitness class outdoors at a park. Before I left for class, I felt a bowel movement, but it wasn’t enough to have to poop. I started driving, and by the time I parked my car, I had a full on turtle head. Shit. I had to shit. And there were no public restrooms in the vicinity. It was too early for any stores to be open in the area, and they wouldn’t let me use their toilet without buying anything anyway. Lucky (lucky, really?) for me, there was some sort of fun run going on in the area, so there were porta potties set up along the streets. Of my 30+ years of life, I have only used a porta potty two times (to pee), and I didn’t plan on using them ever again. But it was either shit in the potty, or shit in my pants. I walked into the plastic stall, and it wasn’t too, too bad. The floor and seat was not yet crusted with urine, so I was able to hover and poo without too much discomfort. I had to go so badly that the log just fell out of my bunghole, and I was done in less than 10 seconds. Awesome. I pooped and didn’t have to think about poop for the remainder of the morning… or so I thought.

As we were doing cardio during the fitness class, one of the exercises required rolling in the grass. We did some backward rolls. On my last roll, I looked down in front of me. There was a fly squished in something. I curiously examined it. Its leg was twitching because it was pushed into something brown. About a nanosecond later, I realized it was me who pushed that fly into that something brown, and that something brown was dog shit. I smashed a fly into dog shit. WITH MY BACK. I calmly asked the closest person to confirm what I already knew: “Do I have dog shit on my back?” The answer was yes.

Worst weekend ever. FML.


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