One morning a few days ago, as I was waking up but still sleeping and stuck in a dream, I dreamed that I was watching a group of vintage old timey people play croquet on a large grass field.
Croquet is the mentally paralyzing activity where you have to hit a ball through a series of wickets, some of them sticky, in the right sequence until you get to the end. If you win, by finishing before everyone else, you can enjoy a victory dance and the pleasure of bashing your opponents’ heads in with the hammer shaped club that is closely associated with the game. Head bashing may not be part of the official rule book, but it’s how we played at my house.
In the middle of the game an older gentleman comes over to me and asks, “Can you see that I poo’d myself?” He turns and gestures to his rear end.
An odd question, to which I reply, “What? No, you didn’t poo yourself, you’re fine.” He is maybe in his early sixties, with blue eyes and thin gray hair that probably used to be blond or a very light red. He seems Norwegian, or some kind of Scandinavian.
“No, I know I poo’d myself, I am just asking if you can tell. Is it showing through my pants?”
I glance at the area in question once more. He is wearing light brown cotton or linen pants and it is difficult to discern one shade of beige from another. “No, you’re good, you didn’t poo yourself,” I finally tell him after making a more careful inspection.
In frustration, he grabs a fistful of cloth from his behind and whisper shouts at me, “Look! I know I poo’d myself, I can feel it wobbling around down there! I just need to know if other people can see it or not.”
Maybe it was the way he squeezed the lump, but now that it has been plainly pointed out to me, I can observe undeniable evidence of seepage. “Yes, I can see it, you have poo’d yourself.”
Totally exasperated with me, Mr. Poopy Pants explains, “That is what I was trying to tell you all along! I poo’d myself, and I am worried that people will notice and make fun of me.”
“Well for God’s sake man!” I ejaculated. “Why would you be walking around with a sack full of poo in your pants? Why wouldn’t you go straight away and clean yourself up?”
“I didn’t want to miss any of the croquet game,” answered Poopy Pants, quite sheepishly.
Then I woke up, laughing at the exchange between me and the poopy old man.
I poo’d myself. No, you didn’t. Yes, I did! No, you didn’t! Yes, I did! Oh, wait, yes, you poo’d yourself. That’s what I have been trying to tell you! Well, why didn’t you do something about it?
There’s the possibility that I might be having a stroke. Wish me luck.
—DG.
Inside Doug's Head 