There’s something about a dare that I absolutely love. I blame my parents who enrolled me in a variety of sports programs when I was younger, fostering my
unhealthy sense of competition.
- “I dare you to press your bare butt cheeks against the car window as we drive down the freeway.”
- “I bet you can’t eat a whole ghost pepper.”
- “Are you brave enough to take the Bing It On challenge?”
Let’s just say that I would have rocked The Hunger Games.
Unfortunately, not every dare ends well. As any betting man will tell you, you’ll win some, and you’ll lose some. It should come as no surprise that most stories of my failure involved excessive consumption of alcohol.
A number of years ago I attended a house party that was so packed you had to lift your arms above your head to move around. By the time I got there the booze was gone, two people were passed out on the stairs, and a limbo competition was going on in the backyard.
I pushed my way to the kitchen because I’ve learned that when the liquor runs out, people evacuate the place where it used to exist. I was right, and managed to find a space where I could drink the tequila I brought without strangers hassling me to share.
At some point, a group of people came into the kitchen and started making baby quiches, cinnamon rolls, and Totino’s Pizza Rolls. I assumed they were stoned off of their asses because not only were they making the deadliest combination of party food I had ever witnessed, but one of them kept saying, “I pity the fool!” with roars of laughter following each time.
They started daring each other to do all sorts of stupid things, each one dumber than the last. They caught me staring longingly at them, and asked if I wanted to join. By this time, I had consumed nearly 3/4 of the fifth of tequila. Good judgment was not on my side.
“PSSSSSH. HELL YEAH I want to join.” Suddenly I sounded like a stoner.
They dared me to eat the entire tray of baby quiches in under a minute. I started off eating one by one, but soon realized that the more quiches I had in my mouth, the more I could be chewing at once. My cheeks were filled with quiche-y goodness, and I was able to eat every last one with 3 seconds to spare.
At some point we started having a dancing competition. Why? When you’re drunk and/or stoned, you don’t really need a reason. For those who have never been complete idiots, let me assure you that mixing bargain brand quiches with too much tequila and dancing is just about the stupidest thing a person can do.
Soon I felt what I lovingly refer to as “The Lurch”. It’s that moment when your entire body starts conspiring against you when you’ve had too much to drink. Some people begin to feel the vomit rising up inside of them, and others experience extreme dizziness.
At that moment, The Lurch was happening in my intestines. The Trojan War. The French Revolution. Any fight scene in a Michel Bay film. There isn’t a battle in history that could compare to the warfare going on inside of my bowels at that moment.
House parties are not notorious for easy bathroom access. People lock themselves in there for a number of reasons: having sex, getting high, needing a place to pass out, tossing their cookies. I banged on a number of doors, but no answer. The situation was becoming dire.
I flew down the stairs, keeping an eye out for anywhere I could take the Browns to the Super Bowl. Panic began setting in. I have a hard enough time fitting in with others, incontinence surely wouldn’t help elevate my social status.
I remembered seeing a Porta Potty a few houses down, and flew out the door to find it. Good news: it was actually right next door. Bad news: it was up on a truck bed meaning it wasn’t in use.
So I did what
any normal person I would do in these situations— I climbed up on the truck, got into the Porta Potty, and relieved myself in there anyway.
Because it wasn’t in use, there wasn’t any toilet paper. I remember saying, “Awesome. No, really, thanks God. That’s really wonderful of you to pitch in. You dick.”
So I did what
any normal person I would do in these situations— I took off my underwear, used them as a wipe, and discarded them.
To this day, I wonder how the person who was responsible for that Porta Potty reacted the next morning. He probably left it on his truck thinking, “It’ll be safe out here. Nobody messes with a Porta Potty.” No, nobody does that. Not unless it is someone who has been partying like it’s 1999.
I didn’t go back to the party. I had enough sense to get in a cab and take myself (and my dirty, dirty ass) home.
I’ve scaled back on accepting dares in my older age. I’ve learned that fun doesn’t have to come as the result of pushing myself to potentially hazardous limits. I still enjoy a challenge. I still enjoy besting others in good fun. And now, because I’ve learned a little self-control, I also enjoy crapping from the comfort of my own throne.