Your Worst Winter Story: Release the bowels
|This is not a toilet|
Got a story you'd like to submit? You can send us your tale of winter wackness to email@example.com. Stories that run will be in consideration for a prize at the end of the series.
Your Worst Winter Story: The Snow Fairy
Your Worst Winter Story: The Hippie Plow
Your Worst Winter Story: Babes at McDonald's
Your Worst Winter Story: Free ride from a cop
Your Worst Winter Story: Lambeau Field and a Drunk Packers fan
A few years back, I met a couple buddies for beers and wise talk at the Bulldog on Lyndale. It was mercilessly cold that night, with temperatures in the neighborhood of five below zero. Stupidly, I had worn only a thin, waxed cotton, work-type jacket with a faux shearling lining over a T-shirt. Dumb, dumb, dumb.
We over-served ourselves for many hours, tipping back Hopslam after Hopslam after Hopslam, while the temperature outside plummeted with every hoppy sip.
It wasn't until the three of us had high-fived outside and sucked down the last few drags of our cigs that I realized just how freaking cold it was, and how much the long walk back to my apartment on Girard and 32nd was going to suck. Indeed, I would have to run, not walk, home to survive.
I took off down 26th Street, charging toward Hennepin on heavy, drunken legs, my vision bobbing wildly up and down, when a familiar, ill-timed feeling came over me: I had to take a shit. Like, right now.
I stopped running immediately, crossed my ankles, and squeezed my legs together, willing the urge to subside and go back to the place from where it had come. It was really cold just standing there. I had to run, but couldn't on account of the shit I had to take. So I went into cold-weather survival mode, determined to do whatever it took to make it home from the bar alive.
When the panic wore off, I took stock of my choices: run and shit my pants, walk (which would surely kill me), or the unthinkable third option. I looked around. Nobody but me. And that snow bank over there. That snow bank that was just about the exact height of a toilet.
I scuttled over to the pile of snow, sort of half bent over at the waist, wrestling with my belt buckle, and took another look around. Still nobody. Then I did it: I shit in that snow bank. Right there on Colfax and 26th. It was a huge relief. And most importantly, I was able to complete the run home, albeit not without some extremely unfortunate and disgusting consequences for my pants, which I won't elaborate on.
But shit, I had survived.