I wish I could think of a classier way to say this, but I’m not sure such a way exists.
I pooped my pants in Hobby Lobby.
Yes, actually pooped. In my pants. Inside Hobby Lobby.
And because once wasn’t enough, I repeated the offense the very same day.
As I drove to the store, the gears in my guts seemed to be happily at rest. No rusty clanking. No threats of throwing a sprocket. But something about getting out of the car and standing up caused a monumental shift in my gastrointestinal tract. The moment I walked through the doors of Hobby Lobby, I knew I was in trouble. I frantically scanned the aisles ahead, the walls — anything — for a restroom sign. I had made it only a few steps past the front registers when it happened.
Rather, a molten eruption of excrement-infused lava came…
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