See... This Is How It Starts

Ahhh. Home safe and sound.

So after stopping to get gas, which came after the gym (chest and triceps!), which came after work, I headed to the supermarket to get stuff for dinner. Because I drink a lot of water at the gym, it's guaranteed that I'll be needing to pee when I hit the market. At the StupidFresh SuperFresh in Doylestown, this is not a problem. They have well appointed and convenient restrooms. But tonight, I had to go to the Clemen's Market in Plumsteadville. Now regular readers of SingleTails will recall that Clemen's Market is the nexus of woofy men. They're always there in force. But, alas, the restrooms at Clemen's leave much to be desired. You have to go through swinging doors labeled 'Employees Only' and 'Hairnets Required Beyond This Point', past these shelves of outdated merchandise, down around the corner behind the meat department cutting room, and enter the grungy men's room. And I did this in a hurry as I had to go really bad.

So I unzip and whip it out, and... uh oh.

For the past few days, I've been having intestinal problems. And that seemed to hit a low point just then. When I did the big muscle release, I shit my pants. Quite unexpectedly, I assure you. Cutting off the flow of piss, I sort of danced from the urinal into the stall to clean up.

I know.... Eeeeeeew!!!

It was runny. Although not an unpleasant shade of ochre.

Oh hell.

I debated just making a graceful exit without getting anything. But we really needed something for dinner. Inspecting in front of the mirror, I saw that indeed, I had a big wet spot on the seat of my pants. I was wearing loose cargo pants, so I did my best to arrange things so that my pants were bunched over my butt, and the telltale wetspot was concealed (mostly) in the folds.

I grabbed what was easiest, hot dogs and saurkraut, and made for the checkout line.

And sure enough, there was a woofy guy in front of me, and then another woofy guy got in line behind me. I did my best to act non-chalant.

I paid for my stuff and made for the door.

Once outside in the arctic chill, I felt a draft where I shouldn't. Looking down, I realized that my fly was wide open. And since I had my pants bunched up in the back, we're talkin' wide open. As in, arrestable.

I headed for my Jeep in the parking lot. Woofy guy, who was only getting a gallon of milk, was right behind me. And, it turned out, parked right next to me. At this point, I'm in a state of 'almost there-almost there-almost there...'

"Hey buddy," Woofy guy says to me, your gas cap is open.

And so it was. I had left the little door over the gas cap open when I stopped on the way.

"Thanks!" I called, closing it.

And I just had this... this... image of myself. Mr. Shitty Pants. Mr. Wide Open Fly. Mr. Leave Your Gas Cap Off. Buying hot dogs and saurkrauts.

Not, I guess, one of my finer moments.

And you thought I was such hot stuff, huh?

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