In "Shit Happens," Justin Bussman hilariously chronicles his lifelong, often mortifying, encounters with his own unruly digestive system. From a mortifying childhood accident involving plastic dinosaurs and a third-grade classroom to the high-stakes boardroom blunders and college calamities, Bussman lays bare the messy, unpredictable glory of bodily betrayal. He navigates the awkwardness of teenage dances, the professional perils of early career crises, and the unique challenges of midlife messes with a self-deprecating wit that makes readers feel less alone in their own awkward moments.
This isn't just a collection of embarrassing stories; it's a testament to resilience, a celebration of finding humor in life's most undignified moments. Bussman’s relatable tales, infused with a "poop-sitive outlook," remind us that perfection is an illusion, and that true wisdom often lies in embracing the chaos, laughing at our own fiascos, and appreciating the messy, hilarious reality of being human. It’s a reminder that even the most mortifying moments can become the most memorable, and that sometimes, the best way to deal with life’s messes is to laugh them off simply.
In "Shit Happens," Justin Bussman hilariously chronicles his lifelong, often mortifying, encounters with his own unruly digestive system. From a mortifying childhood accident involving plastic dinosaurs and a third-grade classroom to the high-stakes boardroom blunders and college calamities, Bussman lays bare the messy, unpredictable glory of bodily betrayal. He navigates the awkwardness of teenage dances, the professional perils of early career crises, and the unique challenges of midlife messes with a self-deprecating wit that makes readers feel less alone in their own awkward moments.
This isn't just a collection of embarrassing stories; it's a testament to resilience, a celebration of finding humor in life's most undignified moments. Bussman’s relatable tales, infused with a "poop-sitive outlook," remind us that perfection is an illusion, and that true wisdom often lies in embracing the chaos, laughing at our own fiascos, and appreciating the messy, hilarious reality of being human. It’s a reminder that even the most mortifying moments can become the most memorable, and that sometimes, the best way to deal with life’s messes is to laugh them off simply.
Chapter 1: The Prelude to the Poo
The afternoon sun, a benevolent, hazy orb, dappled the worn linoleum of our kitchen floor. It was the kind of light that clung to dust motes dancing in lazy pirouettes, making everything seem perpetually cozy, even if chaos brewed beneath the surface. And in our house, chaos was not a visitor; it was a permanent resident, a member of the family who paid no rent but demanded constant attention. My earliest recollection of a truly profound personal disaster, the kind that sears itself into the very fabric of your being and dictates future anxieties like a cruel, tiny oracle, unfurled in this same kitchen. I must have been… four? Maybe five. The exact age is fuzzy, a smudge on the periphery of memory, much like the visual clarity of the incident itself. What remains, however, is the feeling. A visceral, gut-wrenching dread bloomed from a place of utter, unadulterated innocence.
Up to that point, life had been a series of manageable miracles. The sun rose, my mom made toast that tasted like heaven, and toys, for the most part, obeyed my every whim. Bodily functions were as natural and unremarkable as breathing. A cough, a sneeze, a happy little burp after a particularly satisfying gulp of milk were all part of the symphony of being alive. There was no shame, no self-consciousness, just the pure, unadulterated experience of existing. As perceived through a young child's wide, unblinking eyes, the world was a place of wonder, a playground where every corner promised a discovery.
. I was engaged in a momentous activity: meticulously arranging a fleet of plastic dinosaurs on the checkered floor. Brontosauruses towered over Triceratops, their silent, prehistoric drama unfolding with all the gravitas a five-year-old could muster. The kitchen was alive with the usual symphony of domesticity: the gentle hum of the refrigerator, the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall, the distant clatter of my mother washing dishes in the sink. The air was thick with the comforting aroma of something baking – probably an apple crumble, a scent that, to this day, conjures a potent mix of warmth and a lingering, primal unease.
And then, it happened. Not with a bang, or a dramatic pronouncement, but with a quiet, insidious betrayal from within. A subtle shift, a gentle rumble that felt utterly foreign. It began as a mere tickle, an insistent whisper in the deep recesses of my abdomen. Initially, I dismissed it. Perhaps it was the remnants of breakfast, or a fleeting indigestion brought on by the sheer excitement of dinosaur placement. But the whisper grew, transforming into a low, insistent murmur. My brow furrowed. The tiny Tyrannosaurus Rex I was about to position next to a particularly menacing Stegosaurus suddenly lost its appeal. The intricate world I had constructed on the kitchen floor began to recede, replaced by a new, all-consuming internal landscape.
A foreign sensation, one I had no frame of reference for, began to assert its dominance. It was… pressure. A deep, insistent pressure that felt both urgent and utterly baffling. My small body, so accustomed to obeying my will, seemed to be operating entirely on its own schedule. Confusion warred with a dawning, primal panic. What was happening? This wasn't a cough. This wasn't a sneeze. This was something… else. Something that felt intrinsically wrong, a fundamental disruption of the natural order of things. My hands, moments before so adept at orchestrating prehistoric battles, now felt clumsy, useless. The plastic figures lay scattered, forgotten.
My gaze flickered towards my mother, her back still to me, her attention occupied by scrubbing a stubborn pot. Part of me, who still believed in the protective shield of parental omniscience, wanted to call out. To ask for an explanation. To seek reassurance that this strange, internal rumbling was merely a glitch in the matrix, easily fixed with a hug and a glass of milk. But another part, an instinct far older and more potent, urged silence. A deep, ingrained imperative to conceal. To hide this burgeoning, unspeakable anomaly. It was as if a tiny alarm bell, a primitive siren, had begun to wail within my mind, signaling danger, signaling shame.
The pressure intensified. It was no longer a whisper, but a demanding roar. My small body tensed, an involuntary clenching against the inevitable. My eyes widened, darting around the familiar kitchen, searching for an escape, a sanctuary, a solution that I knew, with a terrifying certainty, did not exist within the confines of my limited understanding. The smell of apple crumble, once so comforting, now seemed to mock me, a sweet, innocent aroma masking the impending horror. The sunlight, which had seemed so cheerful moments before, now felt accusatory, illuminating my every perceived flaw.
And then, it happened in a moment that felt instantaneous and eternal. There was no conscious decision, no act of will. It was a surrender. A complete, humiliating capitulation to a biological imperative that cared nothing for plastic dinosaurs or the cleanliness of kitchen floors. A warm, viscous tide, utterly alien and profoundly shocking, breached the dam of my control. It wasn't painful, not physically. But the
feeling. Oh, the feeling was utter devastation—a complete and utter unraveling of everything I understood about myself and my place in the world.
A wave of shame, hot and suffocating, washed over me. It was an alien sensation, a concept I had no words for, yet my small body understood it implicitly. My plastic dinosaurs lay forgotten, witnesses to my utter, abject failure. The rhythmic clatter of dishes from the sink seemed to amplify, each sound a hammer blow against my fragile sense of self. My mother hummed a tuneless melody, oblivious to the seismic shift that had just occurred in the universe of her child.
My breath hitched. My small hands instinctively flew to the source of this burgeoning disaster, a futile attempt to stem the tide, to magically undo what had just happened. But it was too late. The evidence was undeniable: a warm presence seeping through my thin cotton underwear, an unwelcome guest that had just made itself horribly at home. My mind, usually a whirlwind of imaginative play, became a blank slate, wiped clean by pure, unadulterated shock. All thought ceased, replaced by a single, overwhelming instinct:
hide.
I stood frozen, a small statue of horror on the brightly patterned floor. The smell, faint at first, began to assert itself, a warm, earthy aroma utterly out of place amidst the sweet promise of apple crumble. It smelled of… failure—the scent of something gone terribly, irrevocably wrong. My eyes, wide with a terror I couldn't articulate, scanned the room. Where could I go? What could I do? The sheer, overwhelming nature of the situation paralyzed me. I was trapped, a prisoner in my own body, in my own kitchen, with a secret that was rapidly threatening to reveal itself to the world.
The innocence of youth, a cloak of blissful ignorance, had been irrevocably torn. In its place was a dawning, terrifying realization: the world was not always safe and predictable. My body, the vessel that carried me through life, was capable of betrayal. It was a harsh lesson in the most mundane settings, delivered without preamble or explanation. The carefully constructed world of plastic dinosaurs and comforting kitchen smells had been shattered, replaced by the stark, horrifying reality of an inescapable biological imperative.
The humming stopped. The rhythmic clang of ceramic against ceramic as my mother deposited a particularly stubborn pot into the sink was a sound that usually soothed me, a familiar soundtrack to domestic peace. But now, it was a death knell, each resonant thud echoing the catastrophic failure that was unfolding within my underpants' confines.
"Everything alright, love?" Her voice, warm and laced with the faintest hint of dish soap, floated over the refrigerator's hum. It was a question that demanded a simple, reassuring reply. A "Yes, Mom, just playing!" or a "Just thinking about dinosaurs!" But my throat had seized. My tongue felt like a beached whale, heavy and useless, incapable of forming even the most rudimentary sound. All I could do was stand, a small, trembling monument to an unprecedented personal Armageddon, my wide eyes, I imagined, reflecting the dawning horror of my situation. The warmth that had begun as a physical sensation was now a chilling premonition. It was the harbinger of a new, terrifying era where the unpredictable, the uncontrollable, would cast a long, dark shadow over my existence. The prelude to the poo had officially commenced. A vital shard of my innocence had irrevocably fractured in that sun-dappled kitchen, seeping into the cheerful linoleum like a stain that no scrubbing would ever fully erase. The scattered dinosaurs, their painted eyes staring blankly, bore silent witness to a conquest far more profound than any prehistoric battle. The deafening, internal roar of my own unfolding catastrophe utterly drowned out their silent roars of dominion. This wasn't merely an accident; it was an unveiling. And the world, from this precise, humiliating moment forward, would never quite appear the same. It would forever be a landscape where the lurking threat of sudden, mortifying bodily betrayal lay in wait, just beneath the veneer of even the most innocent, mundane moments. The quiet, insidious betrayal of a child's body had made its grand, terrible entrance, and the stage was irrevocably set for a lifetime of anxious vigilance.
"Just… just thinking," I finally managed to croak out, the sound thin and reedy, barely audible above the refrigerator's steady drone. The lie felt brittle, transparent, a thin veil I knew, even with my limited years, wouldn't fool anyone for long. My gaze flickered, a frantic dart across the familiar landscape of the kitchen. The counter, laden with its usual array of ceramic canisters and a chipped ceramic cat. The stove, its chrome gleaming dully. The calendar on the wall, each square filled with the mundane minutiae of our family’s life. None of it offered refuge. None of it provided an escape route from the burgeoning inferno of shame that was rapidly consuming me from the inside out.
My mother hummed again, a slightly more cheerful, slightly more inquisitive tune this time. She was probably wondering what could possibly be so captivating about the pattern of the floor tiles that it could render her usually chatterbox offspring mute. If only she knew. If only she could see the internal Ides of March that were currently playing out, the utter decimation of my small, ordered world. The warm tide was still there, a constant, undeniable presence. It wasn't just warm anymore; it was alarmingly persistent, and the faint, earthy scent, once easily dismissible, was now beginning to assert itself with a boldness that made my stomach churn. It was the smell of discovery—the smell of impending social annihilation.
Panic, cold and sharp, began to claw its way up my throat. What was I going to do? My mind, which a moment before had been a vibrant canvas for prehistoric fantasies, was now a frantic whirlwind of worst-case scenarios. Mom would see. Of course, she would see. There was no hiding this. It was too much, too… present. Every instinct screamed for concealment, for an immediate, drastic measure to obscure the undeniable evidence of my bodily rebellion. My eyes fell on my shorts. They were a rather nice pair, bright blue with little red rockets emblazoned on them. Rockets. Rockets that, at this precise moment, felt woefully inadequate to launch me away from this disaster. They were also, I now realized with a fresh surge of dread, relatively thin. Not precisely a fortress against the encroaching ooze.
My mother’s humming ceased again. This time, the silence was more profound, more expectant. I could almost feel her eyes on my back, a silent, probing gaze that I desperately wished I could deflect. "Are you sure you're okay, darling?" she asked again, her voice softer now, laced with a parental concern that only served to heighten my agony. "You're very quiet."
My heart hammered against my ribs like a frantic bird trapped in a cage. I had to move. I had to act. The longer I stood there, a statue of mortification, the more the evidence would spread, the more the scent would intensify—the bathroom. The bathroom was the only logical destination. It was a sanctuary, a place of privacy and, crucially, of flushing technology. But the bathroom, in my childhood mind, was located at the far end of the hallway, a seemingly impossible distance away. Each step would be a gauntlet, a test of my ability to maintain an outward semblance of normalcy while my insides were staging a full-blown, smelly coup.
With a monumental effort, I forced my legs to move. It was less a walk, more a stiff, awkward shuffle. Every muscle in my body was tensed, a desperate attempt to somehow control the uncontrollable, to hold everything in place physically for straightforward woul you like. I imagined myself as a highly skilled tightrope walker, balancing precariously, trying not to disrupt the delicate equilibrium. The floor felt alien beneath my feet, each step a loud, incriminating thud in the suffocating silence. I tried to keep my gait even, my posture casual, but I suspected I looked more like a startled penguin waddling with a secret.
My gaze was fixed straight ahead, on the distant, beckoning doorway of the bathroom. I refused to look at my mother. I couldn't bear to see the dawning realization on her face, the inevitable expression of disgust or, worse, pity. The smell, I noticed with a fresh wave of horror, seemed to be clinging to me, a personal cloud of shame that preceded me like a herald. I could feel the dampness, a constant, nauseating reminder of my failure. It was spreading, defying my rigid stance, a warm, insistent seep.
As I passed the kitchen doorway, I risked a fleeting glance back. My mother was drying her hands, her brow slightly furrowed. She hadn't said anything, but her eyes were questioning. Had she noticed the peculiar way I was walking? The rigid set of my shoulders? Or was it the smell? Could she smell it too? The thought sent a fresh jolt of pure, unadulterated terror through me.
My journey down the hallway felt like an epic trek across a vast, treacherous desert. Each floorboard seemed to creak with amplified accusation. The wallpaper, adorned with cheerful little yellow ducks, seemed to mock my distress. I imagined the ducks whispering amongst themselves, pointing their beaks at me, cackling about the boy with the leaky trousers.
The bathroom door loomed. It was a simple white door, but at this moment, it represented salvation. I reached for the handle, my hand trembling. I could feel my mother’s gaze, I was sure of it, a burning brand on my back. The urge to bolt, to sprint, was almost overwhelming, but I knew that would be the ultimate giveaway. A sudden burst of speed would confirm every suspicion. So, I forced myself to remain deliberate, to turn the handle with what I hoped passed for casualness.
The click of the latch was deafening. I pushed the door open and practically fell inside, shutting it behind me with a decisive thud. The lock, oh, the blessed, beautiful lock! I fumbled with the little metal button, pushing it home with a desperate, triumphant click. I was sealed in. I was safe. For now.
I leaned against the door, panting, my small body trembling with exertion and residual fear. The air in the bathroom was thick with the cloying scent of lavender potpourri, a fragrance that, in normal circumstances, I found vaguely unpleasant. But now, it was a welcome relief, a potential buffer against the more immediate, more incriminating aroma that was emanating from my nether regions.
The immediate task, however, was do I. The evidence had to be dealt with. My eyes, still wide with panic, scanned the small room. The toilet, a gleaming porcelain throne, seemed to beckon. But how would you like wondering what you could do to get there? How tsligh
sight that greeted me was, to my young mind, catastrophic. The blue fabric was stained a dark, unsightly brown, the evidence seeping outwards with an alarming tenacity. It had spread beyond the confines of my underwear, a clear and present danger to the pristine cleanliness of my shorts. The smell, now uncontained, filled the small space, a potent reminder of my profound failure.
My internal monologue was a chaotic jumble of frantic thoughts.
Don't move too quickly. Don't let it drip. Mom will hear the toilet flush. What if she comes to the door? What will I say? "Just having a little… situation"? The shame was so potent, so all-consuming, that it felt like a physical weight pressing down on me, crushing my very spirit.
I had to get these shorts off. Slowly, carefully, I began to ease them down. Each movement was a calculated risk. I felt a terrifying sensation as the damp fabric slid past my skin, and I braced myself for the inevitable. A small, warm, slightly… solid
thump announced the arrival of the main event onto the linoleum floor. It was a small, dark, undeniably unpleasant mass, a tangible manifestation of my bodily betrayal.
My breath hitched. I stared at it, a morbid fascination mixed with utter disgust. It was real. It had happened. And now it was just… there. On the floor. My floor. My mother's floor. The horror intensified. This was far worse than just a stain in my underwear. This was an
object. An undeniable, smelly, very public proclamation of my inadequacy.
My mind raced. I needed to dispose of it. But how? I couldn't just pick it up. The thought of touching it made my skin crawl. I looked at the toilet again. It was the only solution. I had to somehow… encourage it towards the bowl.
With extreme caution, I shuffled my bare feet towards the offending object. My heart hammered against my ribs. I extended one foot, tentatively nudging it. It moved. It actually moved! A small, tentative shift. Hope, a fragile, desperate ember, flickered within me. I nudged it again, a little more firmly this time, guiding it inch by agonizing inch across the cool linoleum. Each movement was fraught with peril. I imagined it breaking apart, leaving a trail of even more unpleasant evidence.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, it was at the edge of the toilet bowl. I positioned myself precariously, balancing on one foot, and with a final, desperate nudge, I sent the offending object tumbling into the porcelain abyss. It landed with a soft, almost apologetic splash.
Relief, so potent it was almost dizzying, washed over me. But it was short-lived. Now, I had to deal with the aftermath. The shorts were still stained, and my underwear… well, my underwear was a disaster zone. I couldn't possibly put clean clothes on top of that. And I certainly couldn't leave the bathroom in this state.
I looked at the toilet again. Flushing it seemed like the logical next step. But my mother was just outside the door. The sound of the flush, especially the robust roar of our toilet, was unmistakable. It was a sound that said, unequivocally, "Someone has been using the toilet." And at this moment, admitting to using the toilet felt like admitting to the entire world that I had just had an accident.
A new, even more terrifying plan began to form in my panicked mind. A plan that involved a level of deception and physical maneuvering I hadn't thought myself capable of. I had to get these soiled clothes off without alerting my mother. I had to find a way to clean myself up without drawing undue attention. And then, I had to somehow dispose of the evidence.
My gaze fell on the laundry hamper, tucked away in the corner. It was full of my dirty clothes. Could I somehow discreetly add these soiled garments to the existing pile? It was a risky proposition. What if she noticed the smell clinging to the hamper? What if she saw the stains when she did the laundry later?
The internal conflict was immense. On one hand, anxiety. But the ingrained instinct for self-preservation, for avoiding public humiliation, was stronger.
I slowly, carefully, began to peel off my shorts completely. They felt heavy and unpleasant, clinging to my skin with a damp, repulsive embrace. I dropped them into the laundry hamper, burying them beneath a pile of t-shirts and socks, praying that the scent wouldn't be too overwhelming. Then came the underwear. This was the trickiest part. It was utterly saturated, a clinging, sodden testament to my downfall. I had to be careful not to let it drip. I held it as far away from my body as possible, a small, squirming bundle of pure embarrassment, and added it to the hamper, layering it with a pair of jeans and a jumper.
Now, I was naked from the waist down. The cool air on my skin was a welcome relief, but the lingering scent of… well, of
it… was still present. I looked at myself in the small, steamy mirror above the sink. My face was flushed, my eyes wide and panicked. I looked utterly mortified, which, to be fair, I was.
I needed to clean myself. The sink was too small, and the shower… well, a shower would definitely make noise. And what about the water? Would it be too obvious?
My gaze landed on the small stack of toilet paper. An idea, desperate and somewhat ridiculous, began to take shape. I would use the toilet paper as a makeshift cleaning cloth. It wasn't ideal, but it was discreet. I tore off a generous amount, folding it into a thick wad. Then, with painstaking slowness and a growing sense of self-loathing, I began to clean myself. Each swipe was a fresh wave of shame. It was a grim, unpleasant task, and the lingering scent seemed to mock my efforts.
As I cleaned, I heard my mother's footsteps moving away from the bathroom door, back towards the kitchen. The sound was a welcome reprieve, a sign that my period of intense scrutiny had passed. She probably assumed I was taking my time, perhaps admiring myself in the mirror. Oh, if she only knew the true nature of my bathroom exhibition.
I flushed the toilet, the roaring sound now a welcome confirmation of my success in dealing with the primary evidence. Then, with trembling hands, I gathered the used toilet paper, a soggy, incriminating wad, and added it to the hamper, burying it as profoundly as possible beneath the other soiled garments.
Now came the final act of this elaborate deception. I had to put on clean underwear and my shorts. But my shorts were… compromised. I couldn't wear them. They were too stained, too smelly. I had to find an alternative.
My eyes scanned the small bathroom. There was no other clothing. My mother would surely notice if I emerged from the bathroom wearing something different. And she would definitely see if I was wearing
nothing below the waist.
A new wave of panic threatened to engulf me. What was I going to do? I couldn't stay in the bathroom all day. I couldn't explain this.
Then, my gaze fell on a small, fluffy bath mat. It was soft, and I suspected it was also my only hope.
With trembling hands, I detached the bathmat from its usual spot by the sink. It was surprisingly heavy. I folded it carefully, creating a thick, makeshift barrier. Then, I carefully positioned it, tucking the edges into the waistband of my clean underwear. It was an awkward, lumpy arrangement. I felt like I was smuggling a small, furry animal.
I took a deep breath. This was it—the moment of truth. I unlocked the bathroom door and slowly, deliberately, pushed it open.
My mother was at the kitchen sink again, her back to me. The smell of apple crumble, still faintly present, was now mixed with the subtle. Had it done its job? Had it masked the lingering aroma of my disaster?
"All done, darling?" she asked, her voice casual, as if nothing untoward had happened.
"Yes, Mom," I replied, my voice still a little shaky, it seemed to be holding. And the smell… I couldn't quite tell. Perhaps, just perhaps, I had pulled it off.
I walked past her, heading towards the living room, towards the comforting familiarity of my toys. I risked a glance back. My mother glanced at me, a faint smile on her lips. Her eyes seemed to linger for a fraction of a second on my lower half, but then she turned back to her dishes.
I had done it. I had escaped. The Great Escape Attempt, at least for this day, was a success. But as I walked away, a tiny, lingering doubt remained. The smell. The awkwardness of the bathmat. These were the loose ends, the tell-tale signs of my secret. I knew, with a chilling certainty, that this was not the end. The prelude to the poo had concluded, but the sequel, I suspected, was still very much in the works. The scar of this incident, I knew, would linger, a constant reminder of the day my body betrayed me, and I, in turn, learned the art of elaborate, shame-fueled deception. The dinosaurs in the kitchen, I imagined, were still scattered, their prehistoric battles forgotten in the face of a far more modern, and far more embarrassing, conflict.
The muffled thud of the front door closing was a sound that had, until that very moment, signified the return of safety, of familiar routines, of my mother’s comforting presence. Now, it was an announcement. An irreversible declaration that my meticulously constructed facade, the carefully woven tapestry of normalcy I had so desperately attempted to maintain, had not only unraveled but had been irrevocably shredded in the stark, unforgiving light of public scrutiny. The precarious balance I had achieved, the subtle art of waddling with a bathmat stuffed into my underwear, had been enough to navigate the hallway, to reach the perceived sanctuary of the living room. But sanctuaries, I was fast learning, were fleeting, especially when one was carrying such a potent, malodorous secret.
My mother, bless her oblivious heart, had merely hummed a reply as I’d mumbled something about ‘feeling a bit tired’ and retreated to the relative anonymity of the sofa. The living room, usually a haven of dinosaur-themed adventures and imaginative play, now felt like a pressure cooker, the air thick with anticipation, even if only in my own fevered imagination. The scattered prehistoric figures, their plastic eyes seemingly glinting with newfound judgment, were no longer mere toys. They were silent witnesses to my impending doom. Each tiny Tyrannosaurus Rex, each stoic Triceratops, seemed to be leaning in, their miniature jaws agape, ready to trumpet my shame to the rafters. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to conjure the illusion of invisibility, to melt into the patterned cushions, to become one with the slightly worn floral upholstery.
But invisibility, much like the lingering scent from my nether regions, was a luxury I could no longer afford. The bathmat, my makeshift shield, my valiant but ultimately doomed attempt at dignified concealment, had begun to shift. It had been a noble effort, a testament to sheer, unadulterated panic, but its structural integrity was, shall we say, compromised by the inherent…
Nature of its purpose. A slight, almost imperceptible dampness began to bloom on the floral pattern of the sofa. It was a dark, practically apologetic stain, a herald of the inevitable.
My mother, who had been humming an upbeat tune while presumably tidying away the remnants of my breakfast, suddenly fell silent. The humming, that familiar, comforting sound, had been replaced by a pregnant pause, a stillness that was more terrifying than any accusation. I could feel her eyes on me, a palpable weight pressing down, even though I dared not open mine. The silence stretched, each second an eternity, amplifying the frantic thumping of my own heart. It was a drumbeat of impending doom, a rhythmic percussion section to the unfolding tragedy.
"Are you sure you're alright, darling?" Her voice, softer this time, laced with that particular brand of maternal intuition that could pierce through any flimsy excuse, echoed in the sudden quiet. It was a question I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that I could no longer evade with a mumbled reassurance. My carefully constructed composure, already teetering on the brink, began to crumble.
I tried to speak, to conjure up another lie, another deflection, but the words caught in my throat, a dry, rasping obstruction. The scent, no longer contained by the dubious embrace of the bathmat and my underwear, was now asserting itself, a bold, unapologetic declaration of my bodily betrayal. It was a rich, earthy aroma, a scent that, in any other context, might have been vaguely pleasant, reminiscent of damp soil after a spring rain. But here, now, in the hushed confines of our living room, it was an olfactory assault, a pungent testament to my deepest fears.
I could feel it, at least, to my mother.
My eyes, against my will, fluttered open. And there she was. Standing in the doorway, her hands frozen mid-task, her gaze fixed not on my face, but on the tell-tale discoloration blooming on the sofa. The initial flicker of maternal concern in her eyes was quickly replaced by a dawning realization, a slow, creeping horror that mirrored my own. Her mouth, which had been curved in a soft, questioning line, fell slightly open. It wasn’t a gasp, not yet. It was more of a quiet, disbelieving exhalation, the sound of a carefully constructed reality shattering into a million tiny pieces.
The whispers began almost immediately, though they were not the whispers of other people. They were the internal whispers of my own panicked mind, amplified by the deafening silence of my mother’s reaction.
She knows. Oh god, she knows. It’s visible. It smells. I’m doomed. The dinosaurs, those silent observers, now seemed to lean in closer, their plastic forms radiating an almost palpable sense of impending judgment. A miniature Pterodactyl, perched precariously on the armrest, seemed to be craning its neck, as if to get a better view of the unfolding disaster.
My mother took a step forward, then another, her movements slow and deliberate, as if she were approaching a wounded animal or perhaps a volatile chemical spill. Her eyes, wide and fixed, met mine. There was no anger, no immediate scolding, just a profound, almost tragic, disappointment. It was a look that spoke volumes, a silent indictment of my inability to manage my own basic bodily functions, a crushing confirmation of my perceived immaturity.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she finally managed to say, her voice barely a whisper. It was not the accusatory tone I had braced myself for, but a soft, pitying murmur that, in its own way, was far more devastating. The pity was a brand, searing itself onto my already humiliated soul. It was a confirmation that I had not only failed to control myself, but I had also failed to maintain the illusion of control, and in doing so, had subjected her to the unpleasant reality of my bodily functions.
The smell, which had seemed so potent just moments before, now felt almost secondary. The visual evidence, the dark stain spreading across the floral upholstery, was undeniable. It was a concrete manifestation of my shame, a tangible symbol of my failure. The bathmat, my flimsy defense, lay discarded on the floor beside me, a limp, sodden testament to my desperate, but ultimately futile, attempt at subterfuge. It was the smoking gun, or rather, the soggy mat.
My carefully crafted world, the one where I could escape into prehistoric fantasies and emerge unscathed, imploded. The carefully constructed walls of my childhood innocence crumbled, revealing the raw, mortifying truth beneath. I felt a hot flush creep up my neck and spread across my face, a physical manifestation of my shame. My ears felt hot, as if they were radiating heat, and my vision began to blur at the edges, the once vibrant living room now appearing as a hazy, suffocating space.
“It… it just… happened,” I stammered, the words tumbling out in a pathetic rush. It was a confession, an admission of guilt, a desperate plea for understanding that I knew, even at my young age, was unlikely to be met with anything other than weary resignation. The phrase, so simple, so profoundly embarrassing, felt like a brand new, deeply unpleasant vocabulary word I had just been forced to learn.
My mother knelt beside me, her expression a complex mixture of revulsion and maternal concern. She didn’t recoil, not outwardly, but I could sense a subtle tightening in her posture, a faint, almost imperceptible flinching. It was the instinctual reaction of any adult confronted with the visceral reality of a child’s potty accident. The smell, I realized, was now pervasive, seeping into the very fabric of the room, an olfactory reminder of the boundary I had so spectacularly crossed.
“It’s alright, love,” she said, her voice still soft, but now tinged with a weariness that spoke of unspoken duties and the less-than-glamorous realities of parenthood. “We’ll get it cleaned up.” But the gentle reassurance did little to quell the storm of humiliation raging within me. The pronouncement, the casual acceptance of my mishap, felt like the final nail in the coffin of my dignity.
The whispers, which had been purely internal moments before, now seemed to materialize as imagined murmurs from the sofa’s floral patterns, from the silent stares of the plastic dinosaurs. I could almost hear them, a chorus of tiny, judgmental voices.
He did it. He had an accident. Right there. On the sofa. The room, which had always felt expansive and full of potential, now seemed to shrink, its walls closing in, trapping me in a spotlight of my own making.
The immediate aftermath was a blur of activity, a frantic, hushed choreography of damage control. My mother, with practiced efficiency, began to gather cushions, her movements swift and purposeful. She didn’t speak, but her actions were a clear, unspoken directive. I was to be removed from the scene of the crime.
“Come on, darling,” she said, her voice a little firmer now, the gentle pity giving way to a practical necessity. She gently pulled me to my feet. The bathmat, still clinging damply to my underwear, was a grotesque appendage. I shuffled awkwardly, acutely aware of its presence, of the lingering dampness, of the undeniable scent that seemed to cling to me like a second skin. My legs felt like lead, each step a conscious effort to avoid further betraying my compromised state.
The journey from the living room to my bedroom, a distance usually traversed in seconds, now felt like an epic trek through a minefield. Every creak of the floorboards, every rustle of my clothes, seemed to echo with my disgrace. I imagined my mother, trailing behind me, a silent, burdened guardian of my shame, the scent of my accident a tangible, invisible cloud that followed us.
Once inside my bedroom, the door closed with a soft click, and I was left alone with my humiliation. I stood by the door, my shoulders slumped, the weight of the world – or at least, the weight of my own soiled underwear – pressing down on me. I looked at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror. My face was still flushed, my eyes wide with a mixture of residual panic and profound shame. The dinosaurs on my duvet cover, usually a source of comfort, now seemed to stare with a knowing, accusatory gaze.
My mother reappeared a moment later, holding a fresh pair of underwear and a clean pair of shorts. Her face was neutral, devoid of emotion, as if this were simply another mundane task in the long list of parental duties. But I knew, and she knew, that it was far from mundane. This was the direct consequence of a profound, unavoidable revelation.
As she helped me out of my soiled clothes, the full extent of my catastrophic failure became apparent. The underwear was beyond redemption, a sodden, stained testament to the sheer volume of my indiscretion. The bathmat, removed with a grimace, was equally offensive. Even my shorts, the once jaunty blue rocket-patterned ones, bore significant marks of my downfall, a dark, spreading stain that no amount of hurried wiping could have erased. The smell, now uncontained, filled the small bedroom, a potent reminder of the moment my carefully constructed world had imploded.
The quiet efficiency with which my mother dealt with the soiled garments, the swift, no-nonsense manner in which she deposited them into a plastic bag for immediate disposal, was almost worse than any outburst. It was a silent acknowledgment of the unpleasant reality, a pragmatic approach to a deeply embarrassing situation. There were no tears, no dramatic pronouncements. Just the quiet, efficient handling of a bodily accident, a testament to the unglamorous underbelly of childcare.
She handed me the clean clothes, and I pulled them on, the fresh fabric a stark contrast to the damp, offensive remnants I had just shed. But the physical act of changing did little to alleviate the profound sense of shame that had settled upon me. The memory of the spreading stain, the image of my mother’s horrified realization, the lingering smell – these were etched into my mind, a permanent scar on the landscape of my childhood.
I knew, with an instinctual certainty that only a child can possess, that this was not an isolated incident. This was not just a momentary lapse. This was a revelation. The prelude had ended, the secret was out, and the world, as I knew it, had irrevocably changed. The innocent backdrop of our home had transformed into a stage for public disgrace, a stark reminder of the vulnerability of my own young body and the crushing weight of social judgment, even if that judgment was, for now, only coming from my mother. The dinosaurs, I suspected, would forever hold a special place in my memory, not as friends from a prehistoric age, but as silent, watchful sentinels who had witnessed my most mortifying moment. The prelude to the poo was over, and the inevitable revelation had left its indelible mark.
The walk of shame wasn't a metaphorical stroll; it was a stark, unvarnished march of humiliation. My mother, bless her quickly-recovering composure, had taken decisive action. The bathmat, that crumpled emblem of my desperate, failed defense, had been scooped up with a practiced, almost surgical efficiency, its dampness a dark secret bundled away from prying eyes. Then came the directive, delivered with a gentle but firm hand on my shoulder, guiding me away from the stained sanctuary of the living room and towards the echoing emptiness of the hallway.
"Right then, off we go," she'd murmured, her voice devoid of the earlier pity, now replaced by a brisk, practical tone. It was the tone of someone about to tackle a particularly stubborn stain, or perhaps wrangle a reluctant toddler into a car seat. There was no room for lingering embarrassment, only swift, efficient resolution. But for me, every second was an agonizing eternity. My bare feet, still damp from the unfortunate encounter, padded across the cool linoleum of the hallway. Each step was a conscious effort, a deliberate act of defiance against the overwhelming urge to curl into a ball and cease to exist. The weight of what had happened, of what was still clinging to me, was immense. My underwear, once a simple garment, had become a sodden, suffocating prison. The fabric, clinging unpleasantly to my skin, felt like a constant, wet reminder of my failure. It was a heavy, oppressive sensation, a physical manifestation of the shame that was now seared into my very being.
The hallway itself, usually a neutral passage between rooms, had transformed into a gauntlet. The framed family photos, the cheerful artwork I’d painstakingly created in art class, the jaunty little coat rack shaped like a friendly giraffe – all of it seemed to glare at me with silent judgment. The giraffe’s painted eyes, usually brimming with cartoonish good cheer, now appeared to possess a knowing, mocking glint. I imagined the little plastic dinosaurs I sometimes kept in my pockets, their miniature claws itching to point and jeer. Every shadow seemed to lengthen, every floorboard creak sounded like a trumpet blast announcing my disgrace. I felt exposed, vulnerable, as if my soiled state was visible to everyone, even through the closed doors of our home.
My mother walked a few paces ahead, her back a stoic wall against the imagined scrutiny of the world. She carried the soiled bathmat discreetly in a plastic bag, a modern-day magician concealing her less-than-glamorous trick. I tried to mimic her purposeful stride, to project an air of nonchalance, but my body betrayed me. My gait was stiff, hesitant. Each movement was a careful calculation, a desperate attempt to minimize the sensation of dampness, to avoid any further leakage, any further tangible evidence of my indiscretion. The lingering smell, a rich, earthy aroma that was now irrevocably linked to my humiliation, seemed to radiate outwards, a potent, invisible aura of my shame. I held my breath, trying to avoid inhaling the scent that had become my personal brand of infamy.
The destination was the bathroom, a sterile, tiled sanctuary that promised a reprieve. The door swung open, revealing the gleaming porcelain of the toilet, the cool, smooth surface of the sink, and the reassuring solidity of the tiled floor. It was a haven, but a grim one. As my mother busied herself with preparing a damp cloth and a fresh set of clothes, I stood by the doorway, a statue carved from pure embarrassment. My eyes traced the grout lines of the tiles, anything to avoid meeting my own reflection in the small mirror above the sink. I knew what I would see: a flushed face, wide, haunted eyes, and the undeniable slump of a child utterly defeated by his own bodily betrayals.
The act of undressing was an ordeal. The soiled underwear had to be peeled away, the clinging fabric reluctantly releasing its grip. It was a slow, agonizing process, each tug a reminder of the sheer, embarrassing volume of the accident. The sight of the stained garment, a sodden testament to my lack of control, was almost too much to bear. I averted my eyes, focusing instead on the chipped tile beneath my feet. Then came the bath towel, a rough, absorbent barrier that offered immediate relief from the dampness, but little solace for the soul. Wrapped in its rough embrace, I felt a flicker of something akin to safety, but it was a fragile, fleeting sensation, overshadowed by the gnawing awareness of the cleanup that still lay ahead.
My mother’s movements were swift and efficient. The soiled clothes were bundled into another plastic bag, destined for the depths of the laundry hamper, a tomb for forgotten failures. She didn’t scold, didn’t lecture, didn’t even sigh. There was a quiet, determined focus in her actions, a silent acknowledgment that this was a job that needed doing, and she was the one to do it. But in her very efficiency, I felt a profound sense of my own inadequacy. This was a problem she had to solve, a mess she had to clean up, and I was the source of it all. The weight of her quiet competence pressed down on me, heavier than any spoken reprimand.
When she handed me the fresh underwear and shorts, the act felt almost ritualistic. The clean fabric was a stark contrast to the offensive dampness I had just shed, but it couldn't erase the feeling of being tainted. As I pulled on the new clothes, the soft cotton felt alien against my skin, a constant reminder of the grossness I had just escaped. The smell, though no longer emanating from my person, seemed to linger in the air, a ghostly scent that haunted the small bathroom. I scrubbed my hands meticulously, as if I could wash away the memory, the feeling of being contaminated.
The journey from the bathroom back into the main living area was another trial. The world outside the tiled sanctuary still felt hostile. Even though I was now clean and dry, the phantom sensation of dampness persisted. I felt a heightened awareness of my surroundings, of every potential glance, every imagined whisper. The familiar floral patterns of the sofa seemed to mock me, and the scattered dinosaur toys, now neatly arranged by my mother, seemed to watch me with knowing plastic eyes. I avoided looking directly at the spot where the incident had occurred, as if by not acknowledging it, I could somehow erase it from existence.
The truth was, the "walk of shame" wasn't just about the physical journey from one room to another. It was an internal odyssey, a descent into the depths of adolescent mortification. Every fiber of my being screamed with embarrassment. The world, once a playground of imagination, had become a stage for my public failure. The memory of my mother's initial reaction, the dawning realization in her eyes, the subtle flinch I had detected – these played on a loop in my mind, each replay adding another layer to my humiliation.
The isolation was profound. Even though my mother was there, her presence a practical, comforting anchor in the storm of my emotions, I felt utterly alone. This was my secret, my shame, and the burden of it was mine to bear. The sense of being judged, even if the judgment was purely internal, was overwhelming. Every perceived glance from a passerby, every car that drove past our house, felt like an accusation. I imagined people pointing, whispering, knowing.
Was still present. It was a dull ache, a phantom sensation of dampness that refused to dissipate. It served as a constant, nagging reminder of what had transpired, preventing me from truly escaping the experience. The feeling of being soiled, even though I was physically clean, was a psychological stain that would take far longer to erase.
This was the prelude, and it had been more devastating than I could have ever imagined. The meticulously constructed world of childhood innocence had been shattered, replaced by the harsh, unforgiving reality of bodily functions and their messy consequences. The walk of shame was more than just a physical journey; it was a terrifying glimpse into the adult world, a world where even the most private moments could become public spectacles of disgrace. And as I sat there, clean but still profoundly ashamed, I knew that this was a memory, and a feeling, that would linger for a very long time. The dinosaurs on my duvet cover, the friendly giraffe on the coat rack, the very walls of my home – they had all witnessed my undoing, and I suspected they would never look quite the same again. The prelude was over, and the lingering scent of my shame was a potent, unwelcome souvenir.
The immediate aftermath of the “walk of shame” wasn't a sudden epiphany, no grand pronouncements of wisdom etched in stone. It was far more subtle, a quiet settling of dust after a minor tremor. The physical discomfort, the clinging dampness that had felt so overwhelming, began to recede as the fresh clothes did their work. But the emotional residue, that persistent, cloying scent of embarrassment, lingered like a phantom odor. I was clean, outwardly at least, but the feeling of being fundamentally… exposed… clung to me like a second skin.
Back in the relative safety of my room, the world outside my door seemed to hold its breath, waiting for me to re-emerge and face the music. But there was no music, only the hushed quiet of a home that had just weathered a small but significant, powerful domestic crisis. I sat on the edge of my bed, the crisp, clean fabric of my new underwear a stark contrast to the soggy indignity I had just shed. The discarded garments, I imagined, were already submerged in a dark, watery purgatory, their stain a scarlet letter of my recent failings. Even the familiar patterns on my duvet, usually a source of comfort, now seemed to carry a subtle accusation. The little blue dinosaurs, once brave explorers on an imaginary expedition, now appeared to be frozen in mid-roar, witnesses to my ignominious defeat.
It wasn't a conscious process, not at first. There was no grand philosophical re-evaluation of my place in the universe. It was more like a tiny seed of unease being planted, a subtle shift in perspective. Before today, the idea of my own body betraying me in such a spectacularly public fashion had seemed… well, it had seemed impossible. Like the sky suddenly turning purple or my favorite toy spontaneously developing the ability to sing opera. It was a glitch in the matrix of my predictable, childhood reality. But now, the impossible had happened. It had happened, and I had survived. Or, at least, I hadn't actually dissolved into a puddle of shame.
The fear, however, was very real. It was a new kind of fear, a quiet hum beneath the surface of my everyday thoughts. It was the fear of repetition. What if it happened again? What if, at school, during story time, or worse, during that dreaded moment when the entire class was expected to stand and recite the Pledge of Allegiance, my body decided to stage another impromptu performance? The image of myself, frozen mid-pledge, a dark stain blooming on my shorts, sent a fresh wave of heat flooding my cheeks. It was a potent, visceral dread, far more powerful than any fear of monsters under the bed or shadowy figures lurking in the garden. This was a threat from within, from the very core of my being.
This nascent understanding, this dawning awareness that my own body was not an entirely reliable vessel, began to shape my behavior in ways that were, even then, noticeable. I became acutely aware of any slight twinge, any unfamiliar sensation in my stomach. A sudden urge to use the bathroom, once a simple biological necessity, now felt like a ticking time bomb. I started to visit the toilet, just in case preemptively. It was a futile, anxious ritual, an attempt to exert control over something inherently uncontrollable. I would sit there, staring at the tiled wall, willing my digestive system to behave, to remain docile and unremarkable.
The memory of my mother's reaction, though she had handled it with admirable grace and efficiency, was also etched into my mind. It wasn't her initial alarm, or even the slight recoil I’d imagined I’d seen. It was the sheer practicality of her response. The way she’d bundled the offending items into plastic bags, the methodical way she’d cleaned the floor, the efficient disposal of the evidence. It was an adult's problem, a messy, unpleasant task that she, the competent grown-up, had to deal with. And I, the child, had been the cause. This created a subtle, almost imperceptible, shift in our dynamic. I felt… dependent. My ability to navigate the world, I now realized, was not solely about my wit or my speed or my ability to build a magnificent Lego castle. It was also about my body's ability to cooperate.
The days that followed were filled with a quiet, almost imperceptible, hyper-vigilance. I found myself scanning bathrooms wherever we went, noting their proximity, their cleanliness, and their general air of accessibility. If we were out and about, and I felt even the slightest rumbling, a cold knot of panic would form in my stomach. The thought of being caught in a compromising situation, far from the familiar confines of my own home, was almost unbearable. It was as if a part of me had become a prisoner to its own biological needs, forever on the lookout for a haven.
I also noticed a newfound self-consciousness. The world, which had previously felt like an open invitation to play and explore, now seemed to be populated by potential judges. Every glance, every prolonged look, felt like a possible accusation. Had someone noticed me lingering too long in the bathroom? Did they somehow
know? It was a ridiculous thought, of course. The likelihood of anyone in the outside world being privy to my private bodily mishaps was practically zero. Yet, the feeling persisted, a low-grade paranoia that colored my interactions.
This wasn't a lesson in responsibility in the traditional sense. I wasn't suddenly motivated to clean my room or finish my homework without being asked. This was something far more primal, a dawning awareness of vulnerability. Life, I was beginning to understand, wasn't always neat. It could be messy, unpredictable, and, at times, profoundly embarrassing. And the most uncomfortable moments, the ones that truly scraped at your soul, could come from the most unexpected of sources: your own internal workings.
The fear of future embarrassment became a quiet companion. It didn't paralyze me, not entirely. I still played, I still learned, I still navigated the choppy waters of childhood. But there was always that underlying current of anxiety, that subtle reminder that I was not entirely in control. It was the ghost of the bathmat, the lingering echo of the walk of shame, a constant whisper in the back of my mind:
Be careful. Your body has a mind of its own, and it’s not always on your side. This was the actual lesson, learned not through stern words or lectures, but through the silent, mortifying experience of a soiled pair of underwear. It was a lesson that would, in subtle ways, shape my relationship with myself and my own physical existence for years to come, a lifelong dance with the unpredictable nature of bodily betrayal. The dinosaurs on my duvet cover might have moved on to new adventures. Still, the memory of their silent witness remained, a permanent fixture in the landscape of my early understanding of the world and my place within it.
This comedic memoir by Justin Bussman is a deeply personal exploration of a life full of chronic digestive anxiety and subsequent dietary and bathroom obsession. This book is intensely focused on food, stress, and the biological limitations of Justin throughout his life, from childhood to adulthood.
The book is a relentless inner monologue, with each thought, fear, and bodily sensation magnified, described, and sometimes exaggerated. Every paragraph comes loaded with adjectives, similes, and metaphors, leaving the reader occasionally overwhelmed with the glut of figurative and descriptive language devices.
Bussman's obsessive attention to every little detail surrounding his digestion makes each story feel like a diary entry. This narrative is both exhausting and fascinating to read. The point of view is uniquely unfiltered and wholly descriptive.
The memoir is divided into periods of time in the author's life, and each of those chapters is divided into specific incidents related to digestive anxiety. This book could have been structured like an epic poem or an ode to digestion without losing its focus or impact.
There are strong running themes of stress, anxiety, and fear, particularly around public humiliation and embarrassment. The memoir skips over anything not related to food or digestive anxiety, which sharpens its focus but also contributes to repetition that can slow the reading experience.
The author's exploration of bowel anxiety also touches on cultural prudishness. If only he had read Everyone Poos, so much of the psychological angst surrounding poop (and diarrhea) might have been avoided. The book underscores the shame and embarrassment that society attaches to natural bodily functions - especially if they are not experiencing them like the average person. The author shows us through his thoughts surrounding his experiences - read incidents - that our reactions to these experiences often matter more than the experiences themselves.
Ultimately, the memoir leaves you with questions: what is the takeaway, and why this book? Perhaps it is nothing more than a personal reflection and insight into living with anxiety around digestion and the constant mental calculations it provokes. Or maybe it's intended to create empathy for anyone with atypical bowel movements or, more generally, social anxiety. Or maybe it's just a fun book to read in small chunks while in the bathroom.