I’m not saying I did it, but I’m also not saying I didn’t do it. My legal team, the formidable duo of Yahoo! Answers and friends applying to law school, has advised I phrase this non-admission of guilt in speculative terms. This is my OJ Simpson If I Did It moment. This isn’t exactly the cancelled novel from the disgraced ex-football star turned suspected-murdered turned convinced kidnapper. No, this is a possibly-personal narrative about one man on one mission for one un-toppably vile anecdote to be able to tell his friends.
You see it was a normal afternoon at the mall. Children aggressively threw tantrums, Rascals scooted about, teenagers gave each other handjobs in the unisex bathroom—really, there was nothing unusual about this Saturday.
Alone, I stopped and took a seat near the food court. I couldn’t remember why I came here today; I don’t think I needed to buy anything and I consider window-shopping a truly abhorrent activity. It was as I turned to leave that I noticed a morbidly obese individual, somewhere on the spectrum between human and manatee, devouring a bucket of chicken soaked in butter all by himself. Of course I stopped and stared—what good American doesn’t love a complimentary freak show? As I stood there, speculating on exactly how much time he was taking off his life with this meal, I began to ponder my own mortality. What I had I done in my life, namely, would I be remembered as more than an adult baby and McRib devotee?
I wandered aimlessly, my brain in the midst of an existential crisis. Soon I found myself in front of J.C. Penney with a sinking feeling in my stomach. This wasn’t nervousness; this was my stomach, raging like an ocean of rancid lasagna and stale breadsticks informing me that this was my destiny.
“Fate waits for no man,” I said softly to myself as I entered the store and headed towards the Men’s department.
The area was nearly deserted aside from one mother and teen son bickering over sandals. There was one manager making her rounds throughout the store like she was on a loop from The Truman Show, but all the other employees were absent. For five minutes I pretended to browse the racks, fulfilling the illusion of a person being here to cultivate an entirely Eddie Bauer wardrobe. Soon the two other shoppers left, apparently unable to agree on sandals, which was my cue to beeline to the dressing room.
Quickly, I darted in and listened for other people, but there was nothing, nothing except the beautiful, unbroken silence of a vacant space about to be shat in. I let out a little giggle before returning to the shopping floor from my reconnaissance mission. Sifting through the nearest clothes rack, I knew I needed to execute this Operation Dumbo Drop as swiftly as possible. This was a speed round, not a vacation round. I’d need to be in and out of there as briskly as a hummingbird’s kiss. Ideally, it would all just silently slide out of me in one fluid motion, like a smelly trout being released back into the pond.
While I was waiting for the manager to pass by me I did all the prep work I could. I loosened my basketball shorts. I took a deep breath. And I “cued” up my booty butter as much as I possibly could without taking any unnecessary risk. The manager sauntered past, unsuspecting, and I knew the time was now. I kept the charade going and snagged two pairs of Dickies jorts off the rack before bolting into the fitting room.
The Dickies were thrown onto the bench. I lowered my Starburys and braced myself up against the thin Paul Wall of the dressing room, ready to make this as fast and as furious as possible. I bite my tongue; stifling my Serena Williams-esque grunts careful to not give away my position.
My moment culminates in a sickening thud. I look down at my near-perfect masterpiece and my eyes well up with the tears of a proud father. There’s no time to savor this; I use a pair of jorts to give my poop chute a single wipe and then I’m off. I’m speed walking towards the parking lot exit, cautiously listening for a “Code Poop” to come over the store’s public address system.
It feels like forever, but I’ve really only been walking for twenty seconds. I push open the double doors and am reborn into the world. Immediately I tear up the receipt from my lunch at the Olive Garden, as that’s the only thing linking me to that crime scene should a doody detective be called in to investigate
I’ve done it for the story. It’s a textbook D.I.F.S. for me to retell. Operation Brown was a complete success. Or, rather, it all would have been; this isn’t a confession and I’m not on trial.
Justin Gawel is an adult baby from Michigan whose articles appear on BroBible most Thursdays and some Tuesdays usually. Look for more of his writing, his BroBible.com archive, and his updates at www.justingawel.com or follow him @justingawel on Twitter.