It is said that first impressions are base of every social relationship you may or may not have because of it. Right now, you are silently judging every word I so painstakingly conjure up, looking for any reason to dismiss my credibility as an even remotely like-able human being (unless you already know me, in which case you either love me, think I'm okay, or hate me with a passion that can only be described through some form of low groan since I now have a blog.)
So to take some of the pressure of having you, my beloved reader, attempt to gaze into the depths of my immortal soul, looking for any single one character flaw to tear out and expose to the Internet world as a reason why I should be burned at the stake and then repeatedly shot at, as to make my mutilated, burning carcass look like something that even Kafka would have a hard time describing, here's pretty much the reason why I am trying so damn hard right now to impress you all. I hope that I placate you with my attempt at cleverness.
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"SOMEBODY LOVE ME PLEASE."
-----The Story-----
This story begins like many others, I once met a "girl" (who for the sake of preserving her unfortunate identity I will refer to as Sasquatch. ((also, (((Is what I'm doing right here even grammatically correct?))) I put "girl" in little quoties because she is, to put it quite nicely, just a general monstrosity)) ) at a party. At this event, both Sasquatch and I had something very much in common. We both knew not a single person there (as evidence I had gathered lead me to the conclusion that my friends who brought me went off to have sex in the seat which I later had the privilege of sitting in.)
Throughout this party, both Sasquatch and I separately made the rounds, attempting to appease the unforgiving social gods, until our destinies had become intertwined.
Overall I must say Sasquatch didn't leave me with much to form a true first impression. She was rather... Sasquatch-ish is all I can really say honestly, my attempts at describing would be moot, for that single word defines this person so perfectly.
So I suppose that first impressions sometimes aren't the most important thing in the world, and I would have to spend much time to get to know this person, learn all her quirks, qualms, flaws, and know what makes her tick. I'd likely spend months, perhaps years knowing what it is to be Sasquatch, and there-by gaining a knew level of understanding of her. And then after that, who knows. Perhaps I would be able to see beyond her Sasquatch-ness, and see the true beauty of her essence behind that rather harsh exterior, and learn to love the awkward beast for what she really was; some sort of elegant, beautiful aquatic bird-thing. Then we'd get married and experience not a perfect marriage, but a true and real one, filled with struggles, conflict and hardship, that we'd always some how find someway to make it through, which would make it all the more beautiful.
Wrong.
Because as Sasquatch turned to leave me to congregate with the other party-goers, What I saw, no experienced hit me like a Mormon beating the fear and love of God into his son. It was a scene of unfathomable inhumanity; as if it were the very face of evil itself, which had reared its ugly head to look up only at me. What I saw still to this day, is seared into the darkest, damned corner of my unconscious, keeps me up at nights, and makes me question the universe for allowing such a terrible, truly sickening atrocity to ever exist, even momentarily.
Sasquatch shit her pants.
And when I say, shit her pants, I mean that this was no ordinary shitting of the pants, for that would be practically unnoticeable. No. It was as if her asshole was Mount Vesuvius, continuously (yes, continuously) spewing out its volcanic doom while we, the people of Pompeii, would be helplessly petrified in the wake of unimaginable horror of the excrement creeping out from the depths of her surprisingly short jean shorts, (I'm still not quite sure how a Sasquatch gets off wearing those,) and scraping down the sides of her inner thighs much like Tim Curry in Ferngully. And in case you don't know what I'm referring to:
Now I think I can safely say that this is the absolute pinnacle of the worst possible things that could happen to you in any given situation. And I'd also imagine the second that such a thing took place, and it hit you that it was actually happening and not some terrible comedy movie plot device, you would flee the scene of the crime, clear the area so not even CSI could find any evidence that you completely messed yourself, and pray to every single god, deity and person ever in existence that nobody noticed.
Well apparently we are not like Sasquatch. Oh no. She basked in it. For hours. It didn't even effect or hinder her in the slightest, it was actually as if she was at home in a growing pool of her own not so solid, mostly liquidous feces. Sasquatch was clearly some sort of swamp creature, and the bog of deification that she wallowed in was just her natural habitat. A single tear would drip down the unwashed face of Diogenes, for not even he, could reach that level of hygienic apathy.
"I'd still tap that."
I turned my intentions completely from trying to convince every single person at the party that I was the shit, and instead to observing the fact that she had (and do excuse the terrible pun) literally had become just that in the most twisted, un-holy sense of the word.
There was no excuse I could find for her, no matter how hard I tried, and I really did. I wanted to give her any benefit of the doubt I could find. She was not inebriated even slightly; she hadn't touched a single beer. Her pants weren't baggy; they clung to her buttocks forming a denim, cellulite and diarrhea sandwich. She didn't even try to hide it; she was wearing her brown matter matter proudly, something I would respect if it wasn't so fucking disgusting.
Now in this situation, someone like I, who doesn't drink, is a gentlemen and a scholar, you assume would speak to a close friend of hers, tell her as delicately as possible that her friend had cleansed her colon, but soiled her undergarments, pants and dignity in the process. And then that good friend of hers would take her aside, give her a few hundred dollars in un-marked bills and tell her it would probably be in her best interest if she jumped the border and plead for political asylum.
Of course if you assumed this, you are completely wrong, because me being like any other attention seeking crack-whore, who can only thrive when the acceptance and praise of my peers are coursing through my veins, simply approached a very drunk party-goer, and said:
"Dude, I think that girl shit her pants."
-----Afterword-----
For the rest of the night, I was treated as if I were a king from a foreign land. I am now a subject of legend and mythology in the town of Islip, and my popularity amongst the Islip Clan is almost unprecedented, all because I was the first to point out the glaringly obvious (or perhaps just the only person dick enough to do such a thing.)
Sasquatch had also become the stuff of legend, and in fact a legend greater than I could ever hope to become. But not the kind of legend any sane person would want to become. The tale of Sasquatch is known by every single one of my friends, every single person in Islip, and the story is only spreading. I kid you not when I say you can mention this girl's name to anyone in that town and they will say verbatim, "Isn't that the girl that shit her pants?" Even the people who own the Eye Care and Jesus store.
Hipster Jesus didn't need glasses, but then he heard all the cool kids weren't doing it.
This will never leave Sasquatch, it will always linger, just like the stench of her poop trove that even to this day, if you go to patio where that infamous party was held, you would swear you caught a whiff of that glorious moment. The one that made me popular. The one that completely ruined Sasquatch's life. But more importantly the one that made me popular. At Islip Highschool's class of 2010 graduation, when the principal called up Sasquatch, someone shouted a single word. "Doodie." When she eventually skips town, to escape the ridicule and judging eyes of every single person she knows, someone who remembers the tale will eventually pass through, and will tell the story to all. When she pulls a Ralph "Where's Waldo?" Emerson, and holes herself up in some unknown forest, the shrill and laughter of every single animal and being in the forest (which read about the story on this blog) will haunt her daily and nightly.
Hi, my name is Thom Oliver James Boody, and at the expensive of another human being, I hope you think that I am clever.
Time Magazine's Asshole of the Year
