I Wanted To Write About Hipsters
By: Justice Seymour
This week’s article was originally about hipsters and their effect on humanity as we know it. Sadly, I either had too much or too little to say because it gave me a headache and there ain’t no time fo’ that. Now you are stuck with a story from my not so youthful youth. Enjoy…
It was my sophomore year in high school and my morning routine went like his:
- Awaken self at 5:30 a.m.
- Awaken brother
- Brother goes upstairs to take first shower
- I watch a movie for a little
- Brother gets out
- I take my shower
The reason my bother took the first shower was because he takes a whopping 45 minutes! (What takes him so long…?) Anyway, the routine went as usual. I wake him up, and he goes to shower. I start the movie, Accepted, and about 5-10 minutes in, a hard feeling started building in my stomach. It hit like a sack of bricks.
In normal situations, I tend not to freak out, but this was a panic situation. I knew he wasn’t coming out for another 30 minutes. I even tried to go up there, knock on the door, and try to get his attention without waking my parents. No dice. I then started to pace the room, thinking of my options, which were:
Option 1: Go outside | Option 2: Use a bag | Option 3: What I ended up doing |
I lived in an apartment complex. No matter the time, people would see me | …too messy… | Perfect! |
I searched the kitchen for a container that was,…ahem…the correct size.
ME (thoughts): I’ll just go a little,…to relieve the pressure!
I took the container in hand. I squatted over it. I pinched ever so slightly…
BOOM!
Akin to the force of a 17th century pirate cannon, the ‘projectile’ fired from deep inside. It quickly overflowed the container; covered my leg, the floor, and worst of all, my Iron Man jammy jams. I was shocked to say the least. Nevertheless, I had to think fast! I scrambled around and around the kitchen trying to clean it up the best I could, trying not to cause any more biohazards. After 5 minutes of frantic ‘normal housekeeping’, I did clean it all up.
Shortly after, my brother (finally finished, the fiend…) walked downstairs to see me, pantsless, covering my privates.
JACOB (my bro): What happened!
ME (shamed): I had an accident?
Luckily for you, the story doesn’t end there! When I got to school that morning, I vividly told my friends my story of how I braved the worstestest of plumbers’ nightmares. They preceded to tell other people and those people wanted to hear it from the source. I retold that story at least 30 times that day.
Later that week, we was all just chillin’ in band and sharing April Fools stories which quickly devolved into toilet related humor. There was noticeable tension in the room. Something integral to the genre was missing. Everyone who knew my story gave me a look saying: “If you don’t tell it…I will.” So of course, I (who never said much of anything in band) raised my hand and the director was all:
MR. J: Everyone, shush, Tuba Boy has a story!
Clearly and concisely, I told the story of a thousand stories. One third of the way through, I had the whole room laughing their booties off. Point being, jump to next year, I told a bunch of freshmen this epic on a long bus ride returning from a football game. It, not surprisingly, was a hit. Weeks later, it got to the point that various band kids would pay me just to talk about my awkward situations during the long band bus rides. My friends laughed at this enterprise. They heard everything for free each morning.
That’s the Poop Story. Live long and don’t poop in the kitchen.