Pooping Our Pants: a Smelly Kumbaya

There is nothing like pooping our pants to remind ourselves that we are profoundly and grossly human.

In fact, pooping one's pants is the great equalizer. It reminds us that we are neither superior to, nor more valuable than any other person.

Scatalogically speaking, we are one and the same.

Were we to wipe away indicators of worldly success and its associated trappings -- the academic degrees, country club memberships, Gucci loafers -- we would find that we are all just beings who occasionally eliminate waste at inopportune times. With our stomachs churning and butt cheeks clenched, we have all sprinted to find the nearest facilities, occasionally coming up with nothing but the realization we are about to poop our pants. 

I am sure each and every president and monarch has pooped their pants. It's probably happened to every pharmacist, teacher and judge. Beyonce has pooped her pants. Saddam Hussein very likely pooped his pants, especially when he lived in a hole. Serial killers have also pooped their pants, likely Dahmer more than the others.

Even if you wake every morning to a hot, steamy bath drawn by a member of your staff, slip on a cashmere sweater and spritz Creed Aventus cologne onto your hot spots, don't fool yourself.


Later in the day you might just defecate into your $800.00 jeans. Then what?


At that moment, you are no better than a guy who holds up a 7-11 for a six pack and a bag of Cheetos.