Scatological Anecdote

I'd like to preface this post by saying that it is very, very nice outside today. Downright pleasant. Nothing like a 50-something degree January day to melt the ice that has for the past few months turned CU-Boulder into a 25,000-student institution of pelvis-busting pratfalls. Sure, I secretly and childishly find them hilarious - especially since I have long-since mastered the choppy, slip-free gait that I can only imagine is shared by the most sure-footed of mountain goats. But openly laughing at the misfortunes of others is generally frowned upon in grown-up society, and I'm getting tired of faking empathy about something that is so objectively funny. It's not that I want to laugh at them and hurt their feelings; I just want to laugh about them while they're busy silently praying that no one saw them fuck up. What's wrong about that?

But the point (in case you foolishly forgot it) is that it's nice out. I'm happy. My post-Christmas, "January is the shittiest month" ennui feels like a distant, snowy memory. Life is good. So don't misunderstand me, or think me a miser, when I tell you that the last hour of this day sucked balls. I happen to agree with the great Johann Bromide: there is too much negativity in this world.

But man did it suck balls. If you are familiar with me personally, or even with my other blog, "How I Roll," then you know that I am always late for everything. (I know that's not a particularly unique thing to say [or be], but I think I'm especially good at it, so I don't feel lame saying it [or being it]. And besides, did not Johann Bromide also live by the credo "Fuck it - Say it anyway"?) And since class is a thing, modus ponens would dictate that I am always late for it (but apparently not too late for the part where they teach you about modus ponens. I'll have to work on that.). Anyway, as you could imagine, this perpetual lateness has several drawbacks: it engenders hatred in professors, forcing me to lie and say that my last class is all the way across campus, when I don't even have an earlier class; it makes me feel self-conscious when everyone looks at me when the door creaks, causing me to instinctively make a stupid "Hey everyone, I'm a late asshole!" face; but most annoyingly, it usually leaves me with a booby-prize seat (i.e. toward the front, or in the middle of a row, or next to the TA [making it impossible for me to defeat myself repeatedly in Tic-Tac-Toe]). So imagine my surprise today when, as is my custom, I slunk into lecture ten minutes late, fully expecting some lame-ass seat that I'd have to do some Late Asshole Gymnastics (LAG) to get to, but instead seeing a badass spot near the aisle in the back row, freeing me to play Tic-Tac-Toe without the nagging suspicion that the people behind me are watching and deeming me mentally-challenged.

Upon sitting down, however, I was confronted with the worst kind of realization: a smelly one. Straight-up stink. I don't want to belabor the point too much, because there's just no way I can synesthetically convey to you, reader(s), what I was smelling. So I'll just say that someone either shat themselves in this room, or lit a recently-invented candle that produces a smell that is indistinguishable from that of rancid doodies. (And I don’t doubt that the technology exists to produce such a candle. More than once I have been cruelly duped by the convincing aroma of apple pie-scented candles. The next time one of you assholes teases me with the prospect of apple pie like this, I’m going to eat your candle a la mode. And if you think that sounds like something you want to see, please keep in mind that I will likely subsequently vomit all over everything you love.)

I was almost in disbelief that such an unabashed stench could be coming from someone or something in a 21st-century college classroom. In the absence of some baby-genius-Doogie-Howser-type who is capable of passing a 4000-level college class but still shits in diapers, this was unacceptable. And over the course of the hour, I became increasingly agitated. I was rocking back and forth and grabbing at myself like a drug addict, only my drug was air that is fresh and doesn't smell like baby diarrhea. I tried to locate the stench, but it was hard to get a directional read, because it felt like it was everywhere, like if God took a bath in shit. Everyone was a suspect.

Here's a rundown I created in class (with the lid of my computer tilted down so that no one could possibly see what a moron I am):

Possibilities:

Old woman sitting to my left

Dude in white t-shirt and baseball hat sitting directly in front of me

Slightly-overweight guy to my right with holes in jeans

Someone pooped under my chair earlier today

(I didn't check)

Classroom was built on an Indian poop-burial ground

My Imagination?

Indeed, the most confusing part of this was that I didn't see anyone else reacting to what I can only assure you was a contemptible and noteworthy smell. It's possible that I've slightly overstated its strength throughout this post, but it was definitely strong enough that the people near me must've smelled it, too (discounting the fact that one of them likely dealt it). I have noticed before that I have an above-average sense of smell, which as this case indicates is more of a burden than a useful gift. But still, it was there, goddammit. Plus, I suspect that the reason such a great seat was available was that someone smarter than me moved away from the stench. I think what's more relevant here is that I have a far, far below-average patience with things that bother me, and almost anyone else in the world is more capable of soldiering straight-faced through annoyances like these than I am. So while no one else seemed to react much, by the end of class I was a twitching mass of murderthoughts. Murdering someone would have been ironic, too, because as we all know from the great Ezekiel Sotheysay, you poop when you die.

For the record, I think it was the old lady on my left. She was the most likely candidate because she was on the aisle, meaning I was the only one sitting directly next to her - which could help to explain why no one else was hit as hard as I was. And though she looked well-groomed, we simply can't overstate the positive correlation that exists between incontinence and old age. Plus, Ralph Waldo Blanketstatement long ago noted that old people often just don't care.

(Aside: For some reason, almost all of the classes I've taken in my college career have contained at least one "What the fuck are they doing in an undergrad class?" old person. I don't really understand it, but I'm sure they have their reasons. I guess as a rule, I just don't get it when people try to better themselves. But I'm glad they're here, because they're the only ones who laugh at the professors' awful attempts at subtle humor. Without their chuckles, jokes about Nixon that end with "And we all know how that turned out!" would create a silence so deafening that a black hole would form and destroy the earth.)

So ends this scatological anecdote. Man it's nice out!