Pants? Shat.

So I was on the stupid Atkins diet all last week, which meant that I ate way too much cheese. And basically, to make a long story short, I stopped pooping. I wasn't worried for the first few days, because a delayed poop is often more satisfying than your everyday poop. It feels like you're doing good work. But then the days began to pile up, and I realized that I hadn't crapped in almost a week. My stomach didn't hurt, but where was my poop? Was my body somehow eating its own excrement? This didn't seem healthy.

So I bought some Ex-Lax. I had never taken it before, and I was surprised to find that Dumb and Dumber had lied to me...this stuff doesn't work instantaneously. It takes 6-8 hours to kick in. So be it...I watched a basketball game, played a bit of Xbox Live with Boomstick, and read some Far Side comics. Good times.

A fart approaches. Now I can tell the difference between a fart and a poop...there's a whole new dimension of volume and consistency in poop that's missing from a simple fart. A poop just feels meatier. Thinking nothing of it, I raise one leg and trumpet mightily. And at that exact moment, like a Xenomorph fleeing from John Hurt's chest, the Ex-Lax comes to life. Before my anus can close, my pants tremble with shit.

So I go squashing my way to the bathroom--SPLUT SPLUT SPLUT--my asscheeks clenched together, and I unload. It feels great...absolute bliss. We're talking a triple-flush, my friends. But after the magic is over, I'm left with a problem. My pants are pooped.

If these were a pair of ratty old boxers, I would have simply opened the window and winged them over the neighbor's fence, let that crazy old lady next door deal with my fecal matter. But these were the monkey boxers my fiancee had bought me for Christmas. These would be missed.

I couldn't wash them out in the sink...that would have been disgusting. And I had just cleaned the shower earlier that day, so that was out of the question. My only option was clear...the utility sink in the basement. I peek out the door. My fiancee is nowhere in sight. I go creeping down the hallway, shit-monkeys held at arms length, trying not to dribble on the floor. Ten more steps. Five. Three. I open the basement door, and that's when I hear her voice behind me.

"Why are you holding your boxers like that?"

I'm trapped. There's nothing I can say or do. She can see the shame in my face, the look of naked terror in my eyes. And if her nose is working, there are a few other clues on display here as well.

Mustering all my dignity, I let her have it. "I shit myself."

"You what?"

"Shit. Myself. My pants."

She frowns. "You crapped your pants?"

"Absolutely."

And the moral of this story is: Guys, when you can find a girl who is able to laugh at your pants-shitting exploits, hold onto her.

You should see my house. My fiancee has got more fucking monkey paraphenalia than the Congo props department.

And for the record, I lost a grand total of three pounds shitting, but it was all water weight that I put back on immediately. My grand total for Atkins was 2 pounds in a week. Which is utter horseshit, considering the amount of misery that diet put me through. I'm glad Atkins is dead, and I hope Hell burns.

That's the problem with Atkins...all the foods that make me crap like a grandmother in rush hour traffic were all off-limits at the time.

Have you seen how much those things cost, Dave? I'd rather have my asshole implode than pay eight bucks for a bag of bland jelly beans.