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My story of my wildest dreams and worst nightmares :colinpowell: (tl;dr) WALL OF TEXT

Discussion in 'The Bar' started by Napoleon V, Nov 3, 2012.

  1. Napoleon V

    Napoleon V New Member Shot Dead

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    warning: boring

    I have been on a real self-improvement kick recently. Working hard at school and work. Working out consistently. Eating right. Staying social. Juss a real goo couple of weeks. So when I made plans to blaze up and get food, I felt it would be a nice reward for myself.

    Now at one time I was more than a casual weed smoker. I would prolly get high 3-4X a week, out of bewilderment, boredom and often times it seemed like the only fun thing to do. Though I had many great times smoking up, I gradually cut it down so now I smoke MAYBE once a month, probably less on average. Needless to say I usually get very high when I smoke. Such is the case of last night.

    The night started pretty normal, we were gonna smoke a blunt and get DQ. Unfortunately the store closed at 11, and by the time everyone was in the car and we were at DQ it was 10:45 and the weed was not even busted up yet. Normally anytime herb is involved it is a straight drive-thru, but 4 orders right before closing in a 100% chance of loogie. As everyone knows, it is ideal to eat right after smoking, and we had no plans to have a less than ideal night. This meant we would have to pre-roll, go in, get food, move the car (it was not in an ideal smoking area), smoke, and then eat.

    The most adept at rolling blunts was selected, to do just that. We still had some time before we absolutely had to go into the store, so we kept the roller company. I'm used to smoking pretty high end stuff, though with my tolerance at the moment, it really didn't matter what I inhaled as I was guaranteed to go to space. Upon seeing the weed that was brought to be smoked, it caused a commotion among others partaking. What was claimed to be "White Russian" looked like Brown Mexican. One of the people smoking joked/claimed it had no smell, and it was straight dirt weed. I took a whiff and couldn't detect anything but the faintest odor; my nose was a bit stuffed, though breathable, I wondered if i couldn't smell or the weed was truly stenchless. Nonetheless, the weed was busted and the blunt was in the process of rolling. It was at this point that me and the driver (who was not going to be smoking) exited the vehicle and went into DQ. The roller and a companion would stay in the car to finish the job and race the clock.

    The driver and I had been more of acquaintances, mostly friends-of-a-friend through the driver, but had recently been bonding more. It's weird/gay+faggot to say but I have definitely come to consider him as a friend. We are planning to go on a school trip later this school year too, so getting to know him would def be a goo thing. Plus he seems like a goo guy to have as a friend in general. Anyway so we get our food, and the other two clutchly come in at 10:59 and get their food too.

    We go back to the car, drive to the smoke spot and hit the blunt. We had to be quick becuase not only did we have food, we had Blizzards too, so it was important that we had hot food and cold ice cream. The weed turned out to be way better than expected, plus the blunt wrap was a nice tobacco fix (I don't smoke cigs). I felt quite lifted and euphoric when I got back into the vehicle. We move the car to a less conspicuous area and chill + eat for around 25 min. During this time, while still engaging in eating and conversation, I begin to think very deeply to myself, something I often do (and I assume many others do) while high. Thoughts about my life, life in general, the universe, society. The usual high things to think about.

    Not long after we finish eating, drop-offs begin to happen. Because of geographical reasons I am the second to be dropped off. Along the way my thoughts become more deeper, more meta and more in tune w/ reality. They all converge until I achieve a moment of self-actualization. The feeling was greater than an orgasm. For once it felt like I was 100% aware of the reality of everything, with no self-biases clouding my judgement. It was an incredibly personal and overpowering feeling that is truly indescribable. My words don't do it justice. Anyway so I'm still on another level high from this and join back in the conversation going on in the car. All of a sudden I feel a wetness in my b-hole area. Huh? That's strange. It's only a little and I'm almost home so I ignore it. I reposition myself and it disappears. The driver asks me to find something on the radio, so I fiddle around to something goo. Reclining back down in the seat I feel it. The wetness has gotten larger, and spread.

    Let me just go off on a little tangent here. My biggest fear has always been shitting myself in public. I have never experienced it but hearing that it has happened to more people than you think has me worried. I almost feel like I am due for it. It is srsly the scariest thing I can imagine.

    The first person to go is dropped off and we continue on our way to my place, about a 10-15 min drive. At this point I can feel the wetness spread and spread, as it goes approaches the back of my knees and creeps up my b-crack. I begin to think about what I ate that day. I had woken up pretty late, then gone to school without eating. A few snacks of Halloween candy was all I had before I did a nice workout at the gym. Finally around 8PM I had a TV dinner, out of laziness, desperation (wasn't much food in my house), and quickness. As you know, TV dinner food is highly processed. I also think back to the large Blizzard I finished not an hour before. I had had trouble digesting milk recently and was recently starting to wonder if I was developing lactose intolerance. As all of this is going through my head I can feel wetness spreading in my underpants.

    OK. I begin to think. I may have to come to terms with the fact that I have shit my pants in the front seat of a friends vehicle. My worst nightmare had been realized. I begin to wonder if the self-actualization is related to admitting I shit my pants, i.e. I realize everything there is to know about me, including the fact that I shit my pants. HOW TO DEAL? First of all, I stayed calm. The whole way home I was staying present in conversation, keeping my cool, and NOT freaking out. Second, I needed to assess the damage. Had I ruined my underwear? My pants? My friend's seat? My dignity? Would I be paying for upholstery of the seat? (100% chance of happening if any poo got on it). At this point I am 80% sure I lost control of my bowels as I self-actualized.

    I began to subtly sniff the air. My sense of smell had may have failed me once before tonight, so it can only be of use if it DOES smell something, it is not to be trusted if it DOESN'T smell something (only confirmatory tests held weight). After a few inhales, I can smell a slight dirt-like organic smell. I couldn't tell if it was the weed that was smoked almost 40 minutes prior, or the shit I am pretty sure filled my boxer-briefs. I looked over at the driver. He had his hand on his face, with his fingers around his mouth and nose. Not a good sign.

    At this point, in my head, I am panicked. This will be told for generations. I will forever be known as someone who shit their pants in someone's car. My friends will never let me live this down (though I don't blame them, srs that is vry funny). I may have to go through the awkward process of admitting I shit my pants, temporarily cleaning the seat, and then paying for new fabric (which I would gladly do, juss a huge pain, hassle embarrassment).

    We pull up to my house. I am in the shotgun seat, and my other friend is in the back seat. This means he will occupy my seat for the last leg of the drop-offs journey. I say my goodbyes and get up. No smell. I turn around and look at the seat. Not a spot. I walk towards my front door. No shit rolling down my leg. Once I get inside I head straight to the bathroom. The moment of truth. I pull down my pants and examine my underwear.

    Nothing.

    I felt around with my hand.

    A little damp, but no signs of poop.

    The ultimate test.

    I took a big whiff.


    Smelled fresh, no poo stench whatsoever.


    I have come to the conclusion of why I thought I shit my pants. My only explanation is the car had heated seats and I was ass-sweating a little bit from them (I usually ass sweat a lot when I do cardio). The extreme panic made me sweat more, in a horrible shit-fear feedback loop. Being high probably didn't help with the situation either.

    But I have taken away a few lessons from this.
    1. Pants shitting can happen to anyone, anywhere at anytime. Always be mentally prepared to deal with an public pants pooing.
    2. I am a lot better than I think I am at keeping my cool in pressure situations.
    3. When you work hard, it pays off.

    Overall this was one of the most terrifying and awe-inspiring experiences in my life.
     
  2. Napoleon V

    Napoleon V New Member Shot Dead

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    wow that is a lot longer than I though it was
     
  3. Chriza

    Chriza You look like a tree! VIP

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  4. Stevie

    Stevie My number's 7097556EL3 VIP

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    warning: boring
     
  5. BleedingGums

    BleedingGums Well-Known Member VIP

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    ok
     
  6. nazdrowie

    nazdrowie Holy Mackinaw! Gold

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    blizzards, maslow suck my dick, on another level, pants-shitting
     
  7. Napoleon V

    Napoleon V New Member Shot Dead

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    This isn't really story worthy.
     
  8. Napoleon V

    Napoleon V New Member Shot Dead

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    bmp for achieving dreams and embracing fears
     
  9. FtM

    FtM Starless & Bible Black Gold

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    i tried reading this...it was almost as difficult as reading "Arrowsmith". Gave up, sorry. :facepalm:
     
  10. Napoleon V

    Napoleon V New Member Shot Dead

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    Confession: I didn't proofread
     
  11. FtM

    FtM Starless & Bible Black Gold

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    Your publisher will have a fit when you turn this novel in.
     
  12. Mrs Selfestitle

    Mrs Selfestitle Well-Known Member VIP

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  13. Lemmy

    Lemmy Douchebag Extraordinaire Staff Member

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    Wtf?!?!
     
  14. Mlaw

    Mlaw Quite Contrarian Gold

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    why does fucko claim you (as topo) was really him and DaXX?
     
  15. Shedding Skin

    Shedding Skin Well-Known Member VIP

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    Did read, don't know why. I got sucked in because of the self realization part, but felt very ripped off when you didn't shit yourself. I look forward to the big screen adaptation fixing the plot holes.
     
  16. HeinousMark

    HeinousMark Creepy-Ass Cracka VIP

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    IT WAS the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way- in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
    There were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the throne of England; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a fair face, on the throne of France. In both countries it was clearer than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes, that things in general were settled for ever.
    It was the year of Our Lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Spiritual revelations were conceded to England at that favoured period, as at this. Mrs. Southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the Life Guards had heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were made for the swallowing up of London and Westminster. Even the Cock-lane ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. Mere messages in the earthly order of events had lately come to the English Crown and People, from a congress of British subjects in America: which, strange to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any communications yet received through any of the chickens of the Cock-lane brood.
    France, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down hill, making paper money and spending it. Under the guidance of her Christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards. It is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of France and Norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death, already marked by the Woodman, Fate, to come down and be sawn into boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in it, terrible in history. It is likely enough that in the rough outhouses of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to Paris, there were sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which the Farmer, Death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of the Revolution. But that Woodman and that Farmer, though they work unceasingly, work silently and no one heard them as they went about with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.
    In England, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to justify much national boasting. Daring burglaries by armed men, and highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night; families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing their furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwayman in the dark was a City tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of "the Captain," gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and then got shot dead himself by the other four, "in consequence of the failure of his ammunition:" after which the mail was robbed in peace; that magnificent potentate, the Lord Mayor of London, was made to stand and deliver on Turnham Green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in London gaols fought battles with their turkeys, and the majesty of the law fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball; thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at Court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into St. Giles's, to search for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the musketeers fir on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences much out of the common way. In the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on Saturday who had been taken on Tuesday; now, burning people in the hand at Newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of Westminster Hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer, and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of sixpence.
    All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five. Environed by them, while the Woodman and the Farmer worked unheeded, those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights with a high hand. Thus did the year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five conduct their Greatnesses, and myriads of small creatures- the creatures of this chronicle among the rest- along the roads that lay before them.


    IT WAS the Dover road that lay, on a Friday night late in November, before the first of the persons with whom this history has business. The Dover road lay, as to him, beyond the Dover mail, as it lumbered up Shooter's Hill. He walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail, as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill, and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back to Blackheath. Reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals are endued with Reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to their duty.
    With drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were falling to pieces at the larger joints. As often as the driver rested them and brought them to a stand, with a wary "Wo-ho! so-ho-then!" the near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it- like an unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the hill. Whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.
    There was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding none. A clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the waves of an unwholesome sea might do. It was dense enough to shut out everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings, and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed into it, as if they had made it all.
    Two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the side of the mail. All three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the cars, and wore jack-boots. Not one of the three could have said, from anything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from the eyes of the body, of his two companions. In those days, travellers were very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on the road might be a robber or in league with robbers.
     
  17. bobtraw

    bobtraw Motown's Newest Teen Sensation VIP

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    I skimmed and/or power read until I saw the word "shit" and then I scanned a little more slowly...it makes me never want to try pot. I'm already paranoid enough that I worry I'll shit myself when I eat more than two sugar free hard candies.
     
  18. babybear

    babybear Wherewolf of Arizona VIP

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    hi Bob,i'll be at the bank today.
     
  19. Ano

    Ano Dawg Supporter VIP

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    Rectal itch
     
  20. bobtraw

    bobtraw Motown's Newest Teen Sensation VIP

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    I never did win that TV they were giving away.
     

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