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The Big Question: Is it best to Excuse Oneself or to Crap In Your Pants?

Whilst rewatching a box set of 24, a new thought popped into my head, a thought entirely removed from the usual ones gong through my mind when watching 24. Namely, ‘If I asked politely, do you think Jack Bauer might share with me the secret of maintaining perfect buns?’ No, the new thought was ‘how has Jack Bauer gone an entire day without having to crimp a length?’ This thought was immediately followed by ‘and if he did have to quickly head off so he could drop the Cosby kids off at the pool, that could seriously affect his work!’ – I imagined a desperate scenario where the terrorists were just about to breach security, and the only man capable of stopping them was whiling away twenty minutes sitting with his pants round his ankles and a contented grin on his face, idly flicking through the sports pages of a newspaper a previous turder had thoughtfully left behind. Then a third, intriguing thought shuffled along behind some time afterwards, like a reluctant schoolboy who had forgotten his homework: ‘Maybe Jack’s such a man he would crap his pants regardless, instead of shirk out of his responsibilities.’ Maybe indeed.

Give me just a second, Mr. President, let me squeeze this arsebrick out… and let’s go.

With these thoughts in mind, I decided to see which situation could benefit a man the most - excusing oneself so one can crap, but thus running the risk of missing out, or being a man and crapping away regardless with nary a thought as to the dry-cleaning bills. In the interests of scientific discovery, I put myself through a series of common life events one might find themselves in so I could try out both scenarios and discover which is the best.

Experiment One: At play - Romantic First Date at ‘Giovanni’s’ Italian Restaurant

Crapping preparation: The consumption of poorly re-heated burritos washed down with contaminated water just prior to leaving.

Excusing to crap – Despite some awkwardness, this went well. So as to prepare myself for future crapping, prior to a first date I had set up with a hot co-worker called Jenny, I had made a bad job of re-heating burritos and had washed them down with contaminated water. As such, when Jenny and I arrived at Giovanni’s, I was already full, and had to forego the excellent Carbonara for a light salad. When I began to feel the burritos repeat on me, I stood up, told Jenny I had to drop anchor in Poo Bay, but would be back shortly. I think she was mildly affronted by my openness, but was still there when I returned ten minutes later and several burritos lighter. I quizzed Jenny to see if I missed anything in my absence – it appeared that a small boy knocked his plate off a table, and a couple on the table next to us had a brief argument about commitment. Thus, I felt I missed nothing important, and with a feeling of self-satisfaction, I returned to listening to Jenny tell some story about someone at work who was apparently a total bitch or something. When the date ended, hands were shaken and Jenny even allowed me to write down her telephone number.

Crapping regardless – I think Giovanni was surprised to see me again the following night with a different date, especially after the mess I had made in his lavatory barely twenty four hours before, but he welcomed me and sexy co-worker Tina and directed us to our seats. Though I was loathe to do so again, after the fiery sting of yesterday, I had consume several more undercooked burritos to provide the necessary poop. Fifteen minutes in, and the date was going well. Indeed, Tina seemed the type of girl to put out on a first date and I was getting jolly excited. Then I felt a vacant feeling in my bowels and knew the Burritos were doing their work. Making sure I maintained interest in Tina’s story about a cat or her mother or whatever, I lifted my left buttock and with a slight look of concentration, I released a loud explosion of air and then heroically crapped into my pants. Unfortunately I had eaten more burritos than yesterday and thus was unable to stem the flow. I knew I’d need new shoes by the end of the evening. Tina was most unimpressed by my cavalier pooping, and left the table instantly. Giovanni, too, was distinctly annoyed and, had I not been covered with poop from the waist down, I think I would have been roughly manhandled from his establishment. Instead, a stream of Italian curse words followed my hurried, bow legged, waddling exit from the restaurant.

The Four Stages of Poop. Stage One: Concentration

Overall - Excusing to crap was the winner here. I was able to secure another date with Kelly, though she asked me to be less vocal about my bodily functions. Tina, on the other had, refused to look me in the eyes and gave me the cold shoulder whenever I hung around outside her house, and I had to fork out $250 for new shoes, pants and socks as well as several thousand more for carpet shampoo, faux-Italian furniture, compensation for other guests and legal fees after Giovanni successfully prosecuted.

Experiment Two: In public - Shopping at the local grocery store.

Crapping Preparation: Several bottles of Ex-Lax.

Excusing to crap – Learning from previous experiences, instead of downing copious amounts badly cooked burritos, I instead opted for bottles of Ex-Lax, as I was assure it would allow me a less painful pooping experience. As I strolled around the store, releasing a symphony of ass trumpeting at every alternate step, I suddenly felt the trump-raid siren announce an imminent appearance of Mr. Brown on the poop deck. As luck would have it, I was in the vicinity of the lavatory paper section when the siren was raised and was able to grab a roll of the softest two-ply paper and scurry off to the Gentleman’s. After utilizing the grocery store’s conveniences to the fullest, I emerged and noticed that the store had remained pretty much unchanged in my absence. I already felt that Excusing to Crap would be a winner here, but, as the laws of science dictate, I decided I would continue the experiment regardless

Crapping Regardless – I had remembered to buy more Ex-Lax during my interrupted shopping spree yesterday, so again I drank my fill of the syrupy shit-shifter. Mindful of my previous experience with shitting regardless, I had securely tied the bottom of my pants to my ankles in an attempt to keep my shoes clean – I was not sure if I could afford a new pair of shoes after every experiment. Pushing my trolley through the store, I ignored the deep rumblings emanating from within my stomach, which were the first signs of a tremendous turd being brewed and instead, carried on with my shopping. Half an hour later, the calls from my gut were telling me the brain had reached defturd three but again, I ignored the call, and almost instantly, a shiny, conker brown bum otter flew into my underpants and hung suspended in the cotton undercarriage of my briefs. Two more swiftly followed, and one toppled down a leg, but was caught by the clips fastening my pant to my ankle. I patted myself on the back for having such terrific foresight. Poop safely secured, I was able to continue my shopping, albeit I did so waling in a crab-like fashion, for fear of any unnecessary chafing.

Stage Two: The Release

Overall - Tough call. The twenty minutes I spent crapping in the store could easily have been used to laugh at old people or entice cats into oncoming traffic, but on the other hand, I didn’t have to throw away my underpants. But, for crapping regardless, other than a few disgusted looks directed at me, presumably because of the potent stench I had created, or at the rather obvious pant bulge in the anal region, I found there the be precious little after-effects. Other than an uncomfortable ride home on the bus. Ergo, this was a no-score draw.

Experiment Three: At work – The Annual General Board Meeting.

Crapping preparation: Several hundred grams of fibre, curry sauce, sugarless polos and beans.

This was the final test. Excising to Crap had a 1-0 advantage over crapping regardless, but I felt that this would really separate the men from the boys, or the gigantic pile of shite from the chicken-nugget sized plop. That the AGM was generally spread over two days meant I had ample time to pursue both goals.

Excusing to Crap - For breakfast, I loaded up on bran and fibre cereals, which I had been assured would make me crap like the falls, and washed it all down with some potent curry sauce before heading to work. On my way in, I consumed several packets of sugar-free polos, which, the label promised, could produce laxative-like effects. Upon arriving at work, I was ushered into the boardroom. I was surrounded my colleagues and the chairmen of the company. The meeting started off innocuously enough but before long, I felt a familiar rumbling in my pants just as the CEO was beginning to start his rundown of the financial goals for the Autumn of 2008. I held my hand in the air, and in a loud voice, asked if I could be excused lest I soil myself. The directors seemed somewhat taken aback, and I had to add that the soiling was about to happen with alarming alacrity before he waved me towards the door, and quickly, I shuffled towards the door and bowel-emptying comfort.

Upon returning, the meeting seemed to be in much of the same state as when I left. True, I had been paying very little attention to what was being said, preferring instead to imagine my old P.E. teacher, Mrs Eveshank, riding an exercise bike whilst naked, but even so, I could determine that my half-hour sojourn into the land of plop had resulted in me missing very little indeed. One-nil to excusing oneself, I thought.

Crapping regardless - The next day dawned, and once again I ate several kilograms of branflakes and curry sauce for breakfast. I had denuded my local shop of sugar-free polos already, so instead of a minty snack on the bus, I was forced to consume three tins of cold baked beans, much to the consternation of my fellow public-transportarians. Nevertheless, when I arrived at work, I could already feel my stomach rumbling ominously.

Taking my seat in the boardroom, my CEO looked at me with a raised eyebrow and enquired if I needed the toilet before we started, to sniggers around the table. I fixed my fellows with a steely gaze, then informed my CEO that no, I would definitely not be requiring the toilet today, of that I was one hundred percent certain.

The meeting began much as it had the day before, in an inauspiciously auspicious manner. After forty minutes, the CEO was busy informing us of how we were going to penetrate the Middle-East sector by 2010 at the latest, which would increase profit tenfold, provided all our suppliers could cope with the excess of demand, when my stomach announced itself with a bleating parping to the world. Stopping mid sentence, my CEO looked at me with surprise, and I noticed my colleagues either side of me were looking a little faint, but now was not the time for apologies. Something big was happening downstairs.

With a thunderous roar, my bottom unleashed its devastating cargo into my underpants. There was so much, I was forced to half crouch off of my chair, yet it still came. My rear end quacked its enormous approval at the sheer quantity of effluence firing from within. A foul miasma rose from beneath me, and I realised some had found its way out onto the thick boardroom carpet. My colleagues backed away, with a look of abject horror and disgust as my two buttocks finally ceased their devilish applause causing my demolished rectum to finally recede into silence. I looked down. My trousers were bulging oddly, and I could see the carpet beneath my feet would require some serious work if it were ever to return to its previous, glorious blue.

“Sorry.” I said to the room at large. Then, “Please, do go on. Don’t mind me, I’ll have to just stand up for now.” I said, content in the knowledge that I would not be missing a single second of today’s meetings.

Stage Three: Horror

Overall - Let us review: Excusing to crap meant I missed twenty minutes of the meeting, which could have been extremely important – it could have been a recount of why I was the finest employee the company had ever had, or why I was to be made President. It wasn’t, but it could have. However, after crapping regardless, I found myself swiftly removed from the boardroom by two members of the building’s security, then, equally as swiftly, I found myself completely unemployed and, if my boss’ final words were not a total fib, completely unemployable, and I was told never to come back, not ever. Not even to the Christmas Party. So although I missed none of the actual meeting when I crapped regardless, I found that I missed the remaining six and a half hours. Ergo, excusing to crap wins by a length.

In conclusion, this scientific experiment has shown that excusing oneself to take a dump wins over lifting a leg and firing turds out at random by a score of 2-0, with one experiment called a draw. So, let that be a lesson to you all! Next time you need to partake in some bowelling, simply excuse yourself from your present company. It just doesn’t seem to go down too well.

Unless you’re in France, of course.

Stage Four: Guilt