(Warning: personal, scatologically graphic, with no theological themes or conclusions and no redeeming value…but funny)
When I was 17, me and my friends were out stirring up trouble, diving to a party after a school dance. On the way there, we found ourselves in a car chase. Someone had cut us off on the road and we were attempting to inform them of their blunder. At a stoplight, as we pulled up behind the offending vehicle, I impulsively leaped out of the car and charged towards them, ready for anything. However, they swiftly fled the scene. My buddies were not giving up and chased them, leaving me standing alone in the middle of the road. With darkness enveloping the surroundings and clad in my signature black overcoat, white shirt, and brooch, I decided to make my way towards the nearby corner gas station.
In the dimly lit night, a group of seven gang members emerged from behind the gas station, encircling me. I halted, realizing the situation was not a good one. (It’s worth noting that I had consumed a considerable amount of alcohol.)
“You Give Me Yours”
The one I supposed to be the gang leader spoke first… “Give us your wallet,” he said. Instead of going to the drawing board, doing the math, and making the sensible choice of calmly reaching into my side coat pocket and surrendering my long black leather checkbook wallet containing a meager sum of money, I uttered the most foolish words imaginable: “No, you give me your wallet.” Yes, I swear, that’s precisely what I said. I have no idea what I expected, but certainly not each of them presenting their wallets.
Before I could complete the last syllable of the word “wallet,” crack!
I felt a powerful right cross land perfectly on my chin.
All I recall is the jolt from the impact, not the pain itself. It must have been quite forceful, as everything momentarily went dark. Instead of conceding as I should have, I escalated my foolishness by promptly retaliating with my own right cross, targeting the individual to my left (my best guess as to who had sucker punched me). I had been practicing boxing ever since Rocky hit the screens in 1976, and he became my hero and inspiration. I even began to emulate his boxing movements with Apollo Creed in Rocky 3 (arguably the best of all Rocky scenes). Thus, after retaliating with my best Italian Stallion impression, I began to channel my inner Apollo Creed, dancing around, bobbing, weaving, and hopping with my fists protecting my face.
Meanwhile, my friends returned and found their friend (who they thought they might have to do without if they caught up to the individuals we initially chased) engaging in an unusual dance, throwing jabs, and evading punches amidst the seven gang members. Like true friends, they all leaped out of the car and confronted a couple of the gang members each (except for one person, whose name resembles “Sad,” who stayed in the car and attempted to “negotiate” a pansy treaty). Even my buddy with the broken leg (who’s name sounds like “Catt”) joined, running after one of the gang leader’s henchmen on his cast!
So far, you might be tempted to think that this is one of those stories I am telling to try to brag about how brovado and tough I was. I wish it was, and I wish it ended here. In fact, many people have heard the first half of the story, but not the crescendo.
I don’t recall many details from the next few minutes; they passed by swiftly. However, there is one vivid memory that my friends were unaware of at the time and didn’t hear about until two years later. It falls into the category of those things that, when they happen, you make a personal vow never to disclose to anyone and pray that they won’t discover it on their own.
While I had one of the guys in a headlock under my arm, I relentlessly unleashed a flurry of punches. I let it all out. No, really. I let it all out! I was somehow an unwilling participant in evacuating my kidneys while throwing punches. Yes, I was pissing! This gang member caused me to piss my pants! I found myself unable to stop without halting my punches. Thus, I had to make a choice—continue both or stop both. I chose the former. As a result, my light tan Girbaid slacks became dark tan down my legs. Finally, I felt relieved, having completely emptied my bladder. Well, not entirely relieved.
Almost Number Two
Once I had finished urinating, I still had unfinished business. There was one more thing that needed to happen before I would call off the battle and summon my friends back to the car. What was this thing? A few more right uppercuts? A body slam? A DDT? An elbow to the head? No, none of those. I had to transition from number one to number two. Yes, you heard me correctly. I suppose the muscles in my upper body were diverting resources from what they deemed non-essential areas for a brawl. The moment I realized this transition was occurring, I abruptly ceased my actions. I looked up at my friends with a look of utter panic and fear in my eyes. With my buttcheeks clinched tightly together, I shouted, “Let’s go!” We all hastily jumped into the car and made our escape.
“Ummm…She Did It
It didn’t take long for someone in the front seat to detect a peculiar smell and start sniffing and searching around. “What is that smell?” they questioned. Without missing a beat, I swiftly responded, claiming that the girl who was passed out in the backseat with us—the date I brought to the dance that night—had vomited everywhere and was the source of the odor. Alongside blaming the moisture on the front of my pants on spilled beer, this explanation covered up the truth. My secret remained safe, and we all had a thrilling story to share at the party we attended.
I never disclosed to my unconscious date what had actually transpired and how she ended up being falsely blamed for the foul smell. If she happens to be reading this now, I sincerely apologize. It wasn’t you; it was me.
Legacy of Laughter
Looking back, I should have realized the potential dangers of that night. We were incredibly fortunate. Weapons could have been involved, and lives could have been lost or drastically changed for the worse. Nevertheless, we all emerged with an incredible story to tell. As for me, I carried a secret that I would eventually reveal to them two years later, becoming one of the most unforgettable events in my life—one that my children never tire of laughing about. A gang member made their dad piss his pants!
Alternate title: The Night a My Kid’s Father Pissed His Pants Over a Gang Member.
Should I have gone with this title? Or is it too much of a spoiler alert?