Ok, so I was telling someone this story last night (no idea why I humiliate myself like this). I mean do grown men really poop their pants and then blog about it?
Sit down and relax, because this is the story of how I shit my pants on a date and successfully cut my underwear off while walking down Broadway in New York City.
Away we go. Let me transport you too a chilly winter night in the early winter. Must have been about 1998. I am living in Connecticut and decide to take a girl I was dating into the city for a night on the town. We enjoy a nice dinner at Gramercy Tavern (strange how many details I remember from this night). We are walking to a play (Rent..UGH) and I innocently try to slip a fart past a turd. Well, I failed miserably and propelled a liquidy stream down my right leg. (too much detail?) Thank the good lord for my 3/4 length suede jacket, which mostly hides the damage. While it isn't too obvious to others, I still have issues to deal with.
Great, now what? Not very romantic. As panic start to step in, I coolly collect myself and begin to formulate a plan. I will use my Swiss Army Knife to cut my underwear off! BRILLIANT! But wait, the keys jingling are going to give me away. So before I set about this operation, I remove the knife from the key chain. I open it up, slide my hand down the side of Gap Khakis.
Over the course of several blocks and 15 minutes, all while maintaining a conversation on how great the meal was, how awesome Savage Garden and BackStreet Boys are (hey its 1998) I proceed to cut my ALL-TIME FAVORITE BOXERS off. And no..despite discussing Backstreet and going to see Rent...I am not gay.
So anyhow, I am making progress. It takes another block while I shake, wiggle and shimmy until I smoothly expel the soiled underpants out my pants let and onto the sidewalk in front of a Chinese takeout restaurant (great marketing tool)! I look back longingly at my trusty (and slightly dirty) friends, and briefly wonder if I should fess up just so I can rescue them from the feet that will surely trample them (Honey, did you step in dog poo?).
Begrudgingly I forge ahead, all the while wondering if I will ever be able to replace them. Never once did my date figure it out. Believe it or not, I went on to marry this woman. In hindsight (poor word choice), I shoulda just told her I taken a dump on the sidewalk...would have saved me alot of money and trouble, since we were divorced after a coupla years.