You're Full of Cheese: Congratulations, Grads!

My younger brother and sister are graduating high school this week. It reminds me of recent graduation trauma I had at my college. It was not my finest moment, to say the least. It's made me learn a valuable lesson about eating cheese.

It was graduation night. The college grads jittered nervously through the halls with anxiety and excitement. Their sense of "the world is about me!" had filled the campus for a week. My day had been spent giving hugs, advice, letters of reference, and final grades. Relieved we had finally reached the end, faculty decided to go for pizza before the ceremony.

In our local pizza place, you walk in one weight and leave 45lbs heavier. The food is good, the atmosphere bizarrely comfortable with a mix of wood tables, green plants, and buck heads mounted on every inch of the walls.  

Because nothing says "eat some pizza" like dead animals hanging over your head. Even the graffiti in the bathroom is worth the visit. Each pizza is handmade and costs one million dollars. It also takes so long that people call in their orders two or three hours before they arrive. Ridiculous, but the food is that good.

My stomach hurls just looking at this. And yet? YUM. Source.

But you know how sometimes people with the Diabetes snarf a whole chocolate cake? Well that's how I am with cheese. I have virtually zero ability to digest dairy, but I love me some hot stringy fatty salty cheesey cheese. I am the Cheese Monster. So of course, I ordered a pizza with extra cheese, garlic, and mushrooms. And let me tell you that their regular pizza already comes an inch thick with cheese. So this was a lot of damned cheese. Everyone else had their one slice and some salad. I had three huge pieces. And thus, I entered the gateway to hell.

Cut to the ceremony...


I hate graduations. I didn't go to any of my own graduations. Now, as a teacher, I am condemned to repeat these ceremonies twice a year. And I am too cheap to shill out hundreds of dollars to wear a Smurf-like cap and gown, signifying my doctoral degree. So instead, I wear a cheap, ill-fitting itchy black gown, and a cardboard head-sack "cap" borrowed from a friend whose head is 5 times bigger than mine.

Yep, looking up a pig's butt is basically your life after graduation. Congrats!! Source.

After finally pinning that monstrosity to my head, I joined the faculty to Pomp and Circumstance. Faculty sit up front during the ceremony so they can be stared at as punishment by parents and students alike. Halfway through the "your future is bright" canned administrative speeches, my stomach began to expand like a blimp. I fidgeted. I squirmed. I tried to subtly undo the snaps on my pants and let my fat gut out. I got one button down, but this enormous pressure kept me jerking around like a spastic dolphin trying to fold in half.

A-sphincter says what?

And there it was. That feeling. You know the one. This isn't just gas. That overwhelming knowledge that if you move too quickly in one direction, you're pretty much going to shit your pants.


I heard myself mentally contacting Houston. We have a problem. I felt a thousand eyes on me as I tried to sit perfectly still and not make a chocolate sandwich. But when the ceremony ended, that stupid square head-sock identified me to students who wanted me to stop and shake their parents' hands. I couldn't sneak out through the crowd, or blow people off. So I shook hands, gave hugs, quick quips about how wonderful their kid was, smiled, nodded my head, laughed at jokes, took photos, all with my butt-cheeks clenched tighter than Mitt Romney's bank account. (Buns of Steel? Shoot, if you really want a work-out routine for your derriere, just get mud butt in public). I'm sure in every photograph, I was making a creepy "I'm in serious pain!" face.

Something like this. I feel pretty. Oh so pretty. Source.

It was going to be a disaster. I couldn't just use the loo. First of all, what needed to happen was going to be heard far and wide. But second of all, our restrooms are in the bloody gym. I'm not going to be bombing countries, fire in the hole! and then walk out and see my students and moms and little sisters washing their hands in the sink. This isn't one of those "hey I wonder who that was" kind of bathrooms where you can escape. This is one of those "holy hell what was that? let's see who walks out of that stall." I already have anxiety about going in public places. And in all honesty, I was kind of worried that what was happening meant that I was going to die. I needed to be at home for that kind of catastrophic damage.

This is why I don't use public bathrooms. Source.

Sweating and shaking, I clenched-butted my way through the dark parking lot. And then I heard my name. Oh god, no. A former student from far away had come to visit his old classmates. And he wanted hugs, and to chat and catch up... I had the fastest conversation with him that you can imagine, like Mickey Mouse on helium. I tried to convey both total ease "I'm not about to crap my pants" and also "please stop talking to me, I'm totally about to crap my pants" with my body language. He did not pick up on it. I really thought I was going to finalize my impression upon him and the rest of his classmates by pooping myself in the parking lot. I could feel it coming. I was about to have a situation.

Yea there's the face of self-respect. Source.

You can't just crap your pants and come in to work the next day. You can't live that down. Ever. You can't go back in the classroom and say "Bobby! Stop talking" because every time it would get "Ok Dr. Crappypants" snicker snicker. Awwwwk-ward, to say the least. I started sweating hard, shaking a little with dizziness, silently pleading for this kid to stop talking so I could drive away. Like Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, I clicked my heels together and whispered there's no place like home. There's no place like my toilet at home.

The REAL reason Dorothy was desperate to get home... mudbutt. Source.

I sped through the town, knowing that if I got pulled over I was basically going to poop on the police. My thoughts were fatalistic and I was working my way towards accepting that I was going to have to quit my job and tell my parents that it was because I shit myself in the car. I blasted my horn as I drove through the streets, but it wasn't the car horn. I had created my own body horn, out my butt.

You can try, but you can't un-see this. Sorry. Source.

When I finally got home I had some serious alone-time. Just some time to myself to take care of my needs. How often can a woman say that? And boy, needs were met. There were groans, there were explosions, and there was freedom. If I had been kidnapped by aliens at that point for unlicensed rectal probes they would have thought humans had no bodily organs other than skin because I'm pretty sure I crapped out every internal organ I have.

Look I don't make these photos up. The internet has everything. Source.

Later, people asked me why I left so quickly. I hope, that never in their wildest dreams do they imagine that it was to prevent an explosive disaster in my butt. You gotta wonder then, why would I even admit this online? How unladylike. How unnecessary.


Well grads, it's for you. I'm here to teach. As you face the future lying spread eagle before you like an inebriated frat-boy passed out on the lawn, consider my words of wisdom. Never, NEVER, eat pizza before a public event. Because nothing makes an impression quite like public pants pooping. And it's not the impression you want.

Today's post is inspired by one of my new favorite blogs, Peski Pippi, who tells her adventures with oat bran in a far classier and less disgusting way.

Have you ever had an almost catastrophic colon emergency?