To tell the truth, it isn’t the easiest job coming up up with good ideas for this site. Episodes of my radio show fill some of the gaps, and the NFL (which I’ll be losing after the Super Bowl) eats a few pages, but, by and large, I’m pulling these topics out of my ass five minutes before I write about them. Which is why I was so happy when, a few nights ago, I woke up with a jolt, my mind filled with the words “share your childhood shame” as clearly as if I were reading them on the side of a blimp. So, for the next few days, enjoy a collection of the memories that scarred me for life and turned me into the “man” I am today.

Seeing My Dad’s Cock

I shouldn’t list this as a singular memory, because my dad was a fresh-off-the-boat European, meaning seeing him strutting around in the nude after a shower was par for the course until I was 10. Also, the word “cock” has something of an erect connotation, and, believe me, if I’d ever beheld my dad’s penis erect, I would be in some asylum clawing out my eyes and speaking in tongues, not typing this.

So why, other than the obvious, was seeing my dad’s hog traumatic for me? Because it was massive. I have no issues with my dong. It is a run-of-the-mill, porridge-that-Goldilocks-choose average cock. But compared to the my dad’s flaccid penis, my erection is a pimple. The majesty, the goddamn splendor of that construct defied words. That he routinely gutted my mother with that harpoon is something I still refuse to process.

To top it all off, until I was 14 and got AOL, the only penises I’d seen were that of my father and a shot of John Holmes on a Swedish Erotica reel-to-reel that I found in the garage. I spent my adolescence convinced that everyone was hung down to their knee and that I had an 8″ penile growth spurt lurking around the corner. My innocence died the day I realized it wasn’t going to happen. In time, I may go on in life to become as great a man as my father (no I won’t). But there’s one department I will never equal or surpass him in. And it’s a big one.

Shitting My Pants

Like bearing witness to Papa Papageorgiou’s anteater, I’ve weathered this storm more than once. Thankfully, the second time took place when I was 19 and I found it hilarious, not haunting. That first time, however…that was a horse of a different color.

I remember it like it was yesterday. May, 1989. Second grade. Dressed in a dayglo Gotcha shirt, OP shorts and red Converse All Stars. Lunch had just wrapped up and, as we began solving mathematical word problems, it dawned on me that I had to take a monster dump. This wasn’t turtle head scenario, either: I immediately recognized that some very loose, incredibly runny barbarians were at the gate. It felt like the T-1000 was trying to melt out of my asshole.

The devil is in the details, however. You see…I’d never shat at school. Not once, and I didn’t plan on starting then. The thought of my pristine ass touching the same seat that my classmates had rested their scummy cheeks upon disgusted me. Besides, it was only two hours until I could go home and shit in peace. No matter how uncomfortable it was going to get, I decided I was going to hold it. And hold it I did. For 47 seconds.

Come the 48 second mark, my pants began to fill with hot brown lava. The ass and crotch of my whitey-tighties bulged with the volume of a shit that Andre the Giant would have been proud to take. I sat there, mortified, unable to move for fear that my payload would splatter onto the carpet the instant I stood up. My mind froze. I grasped for an exit strategy. What’s worse, one by one, the kids in the class all began chirping “What’s that smell?” to our teacher, Mrs. Levy.

It was that day that I learned a valuable lesson: When in trouble, lie. Lie and deny. If I got up and excused myself, I was a dead man. So I stayed put, joking about the mysterious, awful smell with my classmates and sitting in my filth for hours. When people began to realize I was the source of stench, I claimed it was due to dog shit I had stepped in and left it at that.

The instant my school day was over, I sprinted for the door, waves of relief crashing over me as I realized that, somehow, my Fruit of the Loom were either holding in my smelly shame or had, by this time, absorbed it like one of those massive sponges the lunch lady cleaned the cafeteria tables with. My mom, angel that she is, treated me like a war hero as I tearfully told my story to her upon entering the car. We went home and I soaked my in the tub for hours, sobbing like a rape victim. If there’s a Freudian reason for why I find poop and farts so funny, you just read it.

More to come later this week.

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