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That Time I Almost Soiled Myself in a Train

Illustration for article titled That Time I Almost Soiled Myself in a Trainem/em

I make good on my threat.

Just a quick update on my previous post. I’m also incapable of replying to comments.


To The Greek Empress: I’m sorry to hear that. It really seems like life is just people trying to get things done despite constant obstacles.
To Narelle Ho Sang: Thank you. I’ll let you know if I need anything. I’ve received confirmation that the problem indeed lies within the website. Right now I’m theorizing that a cage full of rabies infected spider monkeys were being transported through the offices, and someone accidently let them loose.
To Sulfy: I can’t hit reply, period. I tried on mobile, no deal. As you can see. 15 days now and I’m finishing this, even if I have to carve an article into someone’s back with a spoon.

A couple of years back, I was hanging out with a friend of mine, Tim. We were at his place, and at a certain point we decided to make lunch. He asked me to prepare and cook the chicken. I took the two pieces of chicken fillet out of the packaging and noticed that it was kind of odd. It had a slightly whitish colour and it felt like it had a layer of what I can only describe as ‘slime’.


I don’t remember it exactly smelling bad, but I do remember asking Tim about it. He told me it’s fine. He just bought it the previous day. They’re fine, he said. I decided to comply and went on to season and fry the chicken. Just to be a safe side, I cooked it a little extra. We both ate it and it went down just fine. Shame we kept getting interrupted, since at the time he was living in a student apartment with 6 other people. A living situation that, if it was me, might have resulted in a murder suicide. But I digress and jest.

A little while after we ate, I left. My stomach was feeling weird, but only slightly. I passed some gas on the way to the bus stop, and chalked it up to being a simple case of methane build up. I did start feeling worse on the way to the train station, but not so much that it justified going to the bathroom and missing my train.


However, the moment I got in to that train and those doors slammed shut, I felt an emotion that I am very familiar with: regret. I was living in a city that was about 37 minutes away, with one stop in between. But it didn’t feel like I had that kind of time. I dread using one of the toilets on the train but I was low on options.

I walked through the length of the entire train twice, and I shit you not, because I was about to shit myself, every single restroom was out of order. When we got to the first stop, I jumped out, and looked around for a bathroom. It was a small station. I panicked, thinking it might not even have a bathroom, so I jumped back into the train.


I walked to the end of the train that I knew would be the closest to the train station proper, thus closer to the restroom. Once there, I was alone, thankfully, and I began pacing. I found a specific walking pattern that calmed me down, all the while I was speaking under my breath, giving myself pep talks. “You can do this. Remember Barcelona? You’re gonna make it.”

Mercifully, the train arrived, my asshole was still dry, and I bolted out the door. I ran to the restroom and forgot that it wasn’t a free public toilet. I thank whatever gods there may be, for the lady that was there, exchanging money. I took whatever it was I had on me and handed it to her.


I knew that she saw in my eyes a man in desperate need of help. She knew exactly what she was dealing with. I saw in her eyes, and on the slight smile that crept across her face; she knew that she was gonna be a hero that day.

She quickly exchanged the money and handed me my coins. Just as I was crossing the gates, I got another scare. The lady had gotten up and was now transporting a large amount of toilet paper over to the men’s restroom. “There isn’t any toilet paper already in there? Am I gonna clean my ass in the sink? Fuck it! There’s no time! I’ll deal with that later!”


I rush to the nearest unoccupied stall, nearly tearing the door off its hinges, and proceed to remove my backpack, and my coat. I don’t think I’ve ever taken off any article of clothing that fast in my entire life. Shirts were raised, pants were dropped, and butt cheeks were on a one way express ticket to the porcelain throne.

They weren’t there yet. I was inching closer and closer but I was home free. I was blasting ass juice before I ever hit that rim. But it was all being neatly deposited within the confines of that toilet. The smell and the noises must have been particularly amusing to my fellow patrons. But why would I care? I had triumphed. After the worse of it had pasted, I raised a single fist into the air, in victory. I had made it. I won.

Papito Qinn is into the whole YouTube thing, is the winner of the 2016 SpookTAYcular Scary Story Contest, and a twitter incompetent. “You think I’m done? This is just the tip of this iceberg.”

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