Among my many, many odd jobs, I work weddings, with photo booths. Yes, it can be a really fun job. Or the worst job ever, depending on the night.
This night was maybe the worst.
I had (again) been relying on my skills as Dealer of the perfect Silent but Deadly Fart to get through this one gig, because my stomach had been mildly upset all day. I'd been to the bathroom several times, but nothing untoward was happening.
On this particular evening, the photo booth was utterly slammed, and even though I knew by this point that I needed to go visit a porcelain god, I was completely stuck with a line of twenty people or so. So I farted. Except, not really. It was definitely a shart, and it was bad. It was a wedding: I was working. I knew I had to act fast, lest my outfit become one that was completely beyond hope. I quickly put a "Be Back in a Moment" sign on my table, and I bolted toward the bathroom. Or I tried to, anyway.
The ballroom was clogged with people. Toasts were going on. People were everywhere. I hopped through, pushing people aside if necessary, and scurried sideways toward the bathroom as fast as I could, which wasn't very.
I was thankfully alone when I finally began to inspect the damage. Luckily, my underwear had caught the worst, but the worst was foul. Really, really foul. I had no choice but to get them off, and so I began the arduous process of trying to remove my pants while simultaneously shitting a river. To top it all off, I was wearing Very Recognizable Shoes; it was entirely possible that while people were coming in and out of the bathroom, they were seeing the photo booth attendant's shoes sitting on the floor (while she scrambled out of her pants), they were getting a whiff, and they then were giving up on the photo booth entirely.
My underwear was covered in shit sludge, which I wiped off as best I could with toilet paper.
But paper will only do so much.
I balled them up and began to sacrifice them to the feminine products -- aka tampon disposal -- box, but I took a second look. This was my Fucking Favorite Pair of Goddamn Underpants: perfectly worn in, cute, comfortable, with considerable nostalgic value. There was no way was I letting these suckers go. Instead, I left them in the box and went to wash my hands, just waiting until everyone cleared out the bathroom.
As soon as I was alone, I sprang toward my precious underpants and quickly shoved them in the sink, rinsing until the water ran clear. I then balled them up in my hand and wrapped paper towels around the sopping bundle just in time, right before a bridesmaid came into the bathroom. She gave me a bright cheery smile, and I walked right out, with my dirty underwear tightly hidden into my fist.
And that is how I came to be carrying a formerly shit-covered pair of My Favorite Fucking Pair of Goddamn Underwear through a ballroom, at a wedding, smiling at wedding guests, and wishing passionately that I'd had the foresight to pack a new change of clothes, just in case. Or at least some fucking underwear.