It all started when I was a senior in high school…
I chugged my morning cup of skim milk with my breakfast before rushing to school, cursing my uncanny ability to never be on time for anything. 10:10 a.m. rolled around and it was time for 2nd period: Advanced English.
As I sat in my usual seat and chit-chatted with the people next to me… I felt it.
An ungodly earth-shattering rumbling in my stomach that was as painful as it was loud and built up enough air in my stomach to give the moon enough oxygen for human life. I knew in that moment that I had to fart, and I was not going to make it out of the room before it happened.
Leaning back to accommodate for the amazing amount of air that was taking up all space in my stomach, I tried rearranging my butt cheeks through my jeans so that I could let a little bit escape slowly and silently before I made my way to the bathroom in the hall. Gritting my teeth and starting to perspire, I gently pushed and tried to let out the smallest amount of air possible.
SUCCESS!
It was so silent that a monk could have meditated during it and wouldn’t have noticed a disturbance in the peace. and OH THE RELIEF! The painful, tear-jerking, gut-wrenching pain that was rocking my stomach lessened slightly with every little bit of air I let out. The relief from that tiny fart was so overwhelming I thought I might cry from happiness and burst out into song. I found myself unable to stop at just a tiny fart and before I knew it I had silently pushed out more hot air than is present at the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta.
Unfortunately, it took about 2.2 seconds AFTER I let it out to even consider the fact that this silent fart of mine might smell. And Oh did it smell. It smelled so bad that people were coughing and the English teacher at the front of the room exclaimed “Oh my God, do you kids smell that?! I wonder if the school has an issue with the sewer system this morning!”
Face beat red, I was thankful for the “sewer” excuse, and even more thankful that the ordeal was over and I could file it under “What the fuck was that” and move on.
…Except it wasn’t over. Approximately three minutes after I dropped my first Stinkbomb, my stomach made the ungodly sound yet again and although I knew how bad the last one smelled, the pain was too unbearable for me to hold it in. Before I knew it, I was dropping silent Stinkbombs faster and at closer intervals, so much so that at one point I really though that just a continuance of air was going to come out of me for the rest of my life and there was nothing I could do about it. I started to get more confident with the excuse of sewer problems and the fact that they all seemed to be silent. However, after a particular long one that I thought would never end… something happened. I could hear my heart beating in my chest and my face was probably as white as a ghost. I prayed to God that it wasn’t what I thought it was. But sitting there in my english classroom, with the windows wide open and peers sitting all around me with their shirts over their noses.. I knew it was.
I had just Sharted in my pants.
(Now for the pretentious suck-wads reading this pretending not to know what a Shart is; it is a really self-explanatory, convenient word used to describe the horror of trusting a fart a little too much and SHITTING IN YOUR PANTS.)
I immediately got up to go to the bathroom, walking weirdly sideways; pretending to be extremely interested in a nonexistent spot on the wall. Panic-stricken, I tore my pants off once safe inside the bathroom stall to inspect the damage. Underwear were totaled but the jeans seemed to escape any severe damage done. Breathing a sigh of relief, I sat down to finish the shit that decided to start on its own.
Describing the horror of the shit I took that day on the third floor of that poor public school would take more words than I have acquired in my short 23 and 3/4 years of life. It was 10 times worse than the beer-shits and left me more dehydrated than a rainbow trout in the Sahara desert.
Now, I knew that I had to drink soy milk when I was a toddler. But I had outgrown the sensitivity and for 15 glorious years I was able to enjoy any dairy product I wanted. But it had, obviously, come back. And in full force. A full, appalling, smelly, panty-murdering, force that has forever changed my view on senior high school English class.
…And that was the day I officially accepted that I was lactose intolerant.
Not even once.
Court-er Life Crisis 