Oops McPoops

Sara and I have been in New Hampshire almost a year now. Money is typically pretty tight, so the quiet night in is nearly always the better option over an expensive night out. On this particular Saturday night, I was as sick as a dog. We'd been invited out, but Sara wanted to make an ice cream cake for a party. Which worked out well, because I was hot blooded, check it and see.
I had a fever of 103.

I'd exercised the classy act of shoving tissue up my nose, in order to create a snot perimeter. My stomach was turning over like I'd had an a acrobatic fetus looking to barrel roll it's way out of my butthole.
I made myself a little drink to take the edge off. Some Skol vodka and Nyquil. Mmm Mmm!

So, I lay back down in bed and pop in a season of '24'. If it's going to be a sick night in, I'm going to make myself as comfortable as possible. After about 45 minutes of watching Jack Bauer killing terrorists, I feel like I'm going to let loose the granddaddy of all farts. I contemplate calling in a Hazmat team and evacuating the apartment complex.

Finally I let 'er rip, and I swear by the bushy beard of Oden that I was actually lifted off the bed.

Sara heard the echo. The apartment complex shook a little. Japanese people everywhere recalled the horrors of Hiroshima. Stock in duct tape, bottled water and Twinkies rose without explanation.
From the other room Sara pokes her head in, with a cup of coffee?
"I heard that."

I look left and right, "Heard what?".
Sara walks back to the kitchen while, I notice some moisture in the seat of the pants.
I think to myself, "Yeah right, I'm 28 years old. There's no way I pooped my pants." I shift to the left, and conclude. "Yep, there's some poop in my pants."

There must be a way to discreetly cope with this sort of a situation. I take a quick mental inventory of the collateral damage. I must deduct the fatalities from the wounded and act quickly.

One fatality, two critical but stable. Okay, now I need to move about quickly with every ounce of stealth I'd obtained from watching Jean Claude Van Damme films.
The boxer briefs are a lost cause. They act as ground zero for this disaster, if you will. Luckily there's a plastic Rite Aid bag under the bed, and a bottle of Febreeze on the window ledge. I dive and roll across the room like a police officer taking cover before firing at a perp.

Apparently, I wasn't as covert as intended. Sara pokes her head from around the corner, and questions what in the hell is going on. I shrug like I have no idea what's going on, but Sara doesn't further persist.

The boxer briefs are in the garbage and disposed of, leaving me with sweatpants and a bedsheet. Note: Sweatpants weren't actually "Juicy" brand. The pants were easy to take care of. A nearby box of Kleenex and an empty laundry bin made short work of them. The bedsheets became my white whale. I realized that I'd need a brush to scrub out the minor poo particles. We had just bought new toothbrushes that week. They remained unopened in the cabinet under our bathroom sink. I sneak into the bathroom, and casually grab Sara's pink toothbrush.

After battling the pro's and con's of this decision, I kneel down and grab the bedsheet. The brush gets closer and closer to the bedsheets. My hand trembles, and I stifle a childish giggle. I'm just about to plunge the toothbrush into oblivion when I hear footsteps.

I turn beet red. I felt like I was a 14 year old that had just been busted masturbating to late night Cinemax in the living room. Sara asks, "What the hell are you doing?!"
I have no idea how to respond. Toothbrush still in had. Poop on the bed. I'm red-faced, smelly, and my covert operation had been exposed.
Mentally, I'd expected Sara to transform into some sort of mythical machine of destruction.

I thought her hair would turn into snakes, her head would rotate and she would profusely vomit a pea soup substance. Complete with adamantium claws and nipple lasers. I was surely in for imminent death.
I realized that there was no way out, and plausible deniability was no longer an option.
At this point, I'm pretty sure I shrunk to about 8 years old, oversized in adult clothing. Much like the ending of the movie 'Big' starring Tom Hanks.
With no other option, I bluntly and reluctantly admit, "I pooped the bed."

There's a brief pause. It was probably only 4 or 5 seconds, but I felt like I'd had enough time to pop a baked potato in the oven and play a little X-Box.
Sara narrows her eyes and shrugs.
"Whatever, I'm baking an important cake."

All that work, and she didn't even care. I was so stupid. I cleaned up, passed out, and made the mistake of telling my buddy Dan at work on Monday. Since then, I was dubbed Oops McPoops, and although the fecal matter is long since gone...It's left it's legacy.