Chronicles of a Left Wing Hispanic Hero

Tales of Yankee Imperialism from Across the Border

Ernesto Che Guevara

Ernesto Che Guevara
Location
Sierra Maestra, Cuba
Birthday
December 24
Title
Comandante
Company
July 26 Movement
Bio
I am the conscience of a lost generation. I come back to remind you of the things you have forgotten, of the beliefs you once had and the principles you once lived by. The world is dying, because you have become alienated from your own, true self.

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Ernesto Che Guevara's Links

Salon.com
Editor’s Pick
APRIL 26, 2011 5:29PM

Comrade Poopy Pants

Rate: 47 Flag

 

My first year of college at SUNY Stony Brook was great. I loved the professionals who taught the political science and history courses there. Many worked in high-powered United Nations, U.S. Government or NGO positions in Manhattan and they taught us much from a blended synthesis of both the academic and the practical. In many ways, my first year of school was ideal. But this was not to last beyond the first month of my spring semester.

 

 

I had finished the Fall Semester in triumph. I earned straight A’s and got on the good side of numerous professors. Even though I lived off-campus with my parents in Port Jefferson, I still managed to make a lot of friends, dated a few girls and even rushed a fraternity. The winter break following finals was also great and I spent it making numerous forays into Manhattan with my new girlfriend. As I began the new spring semester in January of 1994, the future looked wide-open and bright. I was quickly on my way toward becoming a “big man on campus.”

 

 

I took a full academic load and hunkered down for a tough and grueling study schedule. My first course was on international relations and it was taught at 7:00 am by a professor who also served as an assistant U.S. diplomat at the United Nations, in Manhattan. Every morning I made certain to be the first student in class, not only because I wanted to schmooze with the professor before classes began (so as to make a good impression) but also, so that I could flirt with a cute redhead named Lauren who often sat beside me. Lauren was friends with my ex-girlfriend and knew that I was now “on the market.” She must have heard good stories about me, because she made it obvious to everybody, including me, that she was interested.

 


One morning I was in a rush and couldn’t eat the breakfast my mom had prepared for me before I left home. Instead, I stopped at a local convenience store and purchased two cartons of plain milk, two cartons of chocolate milk and a pre-made fried egg and cheese sandwich. I paid for my food and jumped back in my car and drove like hell, because I was going to be late for class. While driving, I took a few bites out of my sandwich, but tossed it out the window: in my haste, I had grabbed a semi-cooked one. It was disgusting. To get the bad taste out of my mouth, I quickly downed the two cartons of chocolate milk.

 

 

I arrived at school just in time. I parked and ran to class, with all my stuff and the two remaining cartons of milk in my LL Bean backpack. I got to class 10 minutes after it began. No big deal, since kids were still talking, the professor was writing stuff on the chalk-board and nothing was really going on. However, everybody saw me come in through the doors and down the aisle and walk up to the front of the classroom to take my seat, next to Lauren, where I usually sat. Lauren was wearing her hair in the most amazing manner that morning, a ponytail and a sweater and she looked heavenly. I could smell her from where I was sitting and I could barely keep my mind and attention focused on the professor’s lecture. All I could think about was talking to Lauren and asking her out to a movie. All I could do was rehearse the lines in my head. Nervous, I remembered the milk in my bag and I started to drink it and act macho, like I was some kind of awesome Hispanic athlete, a jock all the ladies could admire. I worked-out religiously and drinking milk was part of the heroic image of ultra health and virility that I had crafted for myself. 

 

 

However, this image wasn’t to last.

 

 

Within 20 minutes of my blitz-milk-chugging I could feel my stomach turn and knot and curdle inside my gut. It was one of the worst feelings in my life. It not only felt horrible, but it sounded horrible, too.

 

 

The loud churning chorus of bubbling gasses and noxious liquids violently gushing around inside me loudly interrupted my professor’s lecture. He stopped and he looked at me. Lauren noticed, too, and she looked at me with an expression I can only describe as “disgusted amusement.” I heard some guys behind me start to snicker and laugh.

 

 

It was no laughing matter.

 

 

Within a few minutes I knew I couldn’t last much longer and I got up from my chair and quickly walked up the lecture hall aisle, ascending upward toward the large swinging door in the rear of the auditorium. The closer I came to the door, the quicker and more violent the quaking tremors in my gut became. I rapidly speeded my pace such that, by the time I was halfway up the aisle, my quick walk had transformed itself into a veritable jog. My face was red. There was sweat on my brow. Tears were beginning to form in my eyes. People could see me. They were watching me. Staring at me. I was sure of it.

 

 

I pushed the doors open with a violent linebacker shoulder slam and ran down the hallway with all my might. I felt like I was about to cry and the violent athletic exertion only made my stomach worse.

 

 

Halfway down the hall I heard a loud explosion. It could have been from a

 war-zone, but I knew better. The source was from within. I had just experienced the loudest, messiest and most painful anal explosion ever known by the sphincter of man. The force of it, combined with my running, caused my knees to buckle and actually served to knock me down, tripping face first, onto the tile floor of the hallway. I was still 100 feet away from the restroom.

 

I wanted to die. I was panicking. I was mortified that such an embarrassing and horrible thing had happened to me. Not only had I, a grown man, shit myself, but I had done so in public in front of people I was desperately trying to impress. I had also fallen down and found myself covered in diarhea.

 

It quickly dawned on me--with the speed of instant awareness that only an emergency such as this can convey upon a mortal man such as myself—that I was wearing khaki pants. Could it get any worse than this? The evidence of my anal indiscretion would be apparent to all---students, teachers, professors, fraternity members and Lauren. It would be one thing if I was wearing jeans. I could say I sat in water accidentally or fell in the snow. Nobody would be able to tell if the wet-spot was brown or blue or whatever; nobody would be able to discern the source. But light beige khakis? I might as well have hung a sign around my neck saying "Hi. My name is Miguel and I just shit myself. Please shoot me."

 

I realized that I only had a few moments with which to come to my senses, collect my stuff, and make a mad-dash for the bathroom. My life depended on it.

 

So I pulled myself up and ran. Then came the most disgusting sensation I had ever experienced in my life. As I ran to the bathroom I could feel the anal ejecta slowly ooze itself down my legs and into my socks, quickly moving downward with the rythmic momentum of my running leg pace. With each leg I threw forward, the nastiness was flung farther and farther down. I started to feel it between my toes. At the same time, the “wick-effect” took over, and the dampness spread upwards toward the front side of my pants as well.

 

The smell and sight of total liquid shit was all enveloping and all consuming. It was worse than taking a steaming hot mud bath in a stinking southern swamp. It felt like I was...well...it felt like I was covered in shit...

 

Once I was in the bathroom I knew the coast was clear. Luckily, God granted me stellar critical thinking and problem solving skills, so I was speedily trying to devise a way to get myself out of this situation. My pants were ruined, but I was wearing an oversized bright, fire-engine red sweater, a flannel shirt and a coat. My socks and pants were totally destroyed, as were my underwear.

 

What to do?

 

Well, the first thing I did was rip my clothes off and quickly wiped the shit off of me. It was all over my ass, lower back, inner thighs, calves and had worked its way between my toes. I was a total mess and felt like an infant. I mean, how the fuck does this happen to a grown man, an athletic man, a fraternity man, a BIG MAN ON CAMPUS such as myself?

 

I got most of it off, but I was still feeling horribly unfresh and disgustingly damp and dank. I didn't have time to clean myself up as much as I would have liked because, to be frank, I didn't want to be caught butt-naked in the middle of the bathroom cleaning myself. The scrub job that was required was a massive undertaking and I simply didn't have room to do most of it within the narrow confines of the bathroom stalls.

 

Most of the shit was gone. So I needed to figure out how to look half way decent.  I managed to put my red sweater over my legs, using the arms of the sweater as pant-legs. I tied a knot in the place where the neck-hole was, so that my manly equipment didn’t hang through. Then I took the belt off of my pants and used it to tighten the sweater around my waist. I kept my flannel shirt on, and hung the jacket around my sides in the manner people tend to wear them when it is warm outside.

 

The problem is that it was 10 degrees out and we had two feet of snow on the ground. I folded my khakis and underwear and put them under the garbage bag in the garbage can next to the sink. I was hoping the janitor, if and when he came to take out the trash, would figure out what had happened and would leave them there, out of the kindness of his heart.

 

Then I heard the class let-out. I heard all my classmates joking and talking and laughing as they came down the hallway. I could hear them through the bathroom doors. Many were talking about my recent dramatic exit and whether they had seen me, inquiring where I had gone and why I had left. I ran into the bathroom stall so that nobody could find me. The last thing I wanted to do was to face my peers or would-be tormentors. Many came into the bathroom and continued the conversation. The first thing many of them said as they entered was "Oh my god. What the fuck died in here? Holy Shit. I think I'm gonna die" and similar such statements. They were too stupid to figure out what had happened and I was safe. For now.

 

 

I had been in the bathroom now, for 3 hours. As my classmates took care of business, after class, I occupied myself in the bathroom stall with the Nintendo gameboy I had in my jacket pocket. Tetris was never such a welcome relief as it was that day, I can assure you. Since we were the only class on the first floor of the building meeting that day, I knew I just had to wait until everybody left the hall.

 

I waited an extra 30 minutes just to be safe and I ran to the classroom with my red sweater-pants on, bolting down the hall faster and more furiously than any member of the SUNY athletic team could ever rival. I ran to my classroom and down the aisle and packed up my backpack and books and spirited out the door. I had no socks on, as they were destroyed and my sneakers and entire crotch and inner-thigh area was still slightly soggy. It caused highly unpleasant chaffing and massive irritation as I was running. This day wasn’t just psychologically humiliating, but it was physically painful as well.

 

 

I ran back to the bathroom, which I was now using as sort of a command post. The whole place reaked of total, massive shit. It was the most overpowering fecal odor I had ever encountered. I guess I needed to leave the room first, and then come back into it from outside, to totally understand how nasty it smelled. My pants were still in there and they were stinking the place to high heaven.

 

I needed to think about what I would do next. As I was doing this, the Janitor came in. He looked at me and smelled the air and the most disgusting look overcame his face. He started to empty out the garbage can. He saw the shitty pants at the bottom of the can, looked up at me in my red sweater-pants and then shook his head as if he was ashamed to even be looking at me, and then rolled his cart away, away from me and my foolishness, his head shaking back and forth all the while. He was mumbling something to himself as well, something about “damn white boy college kids shitting themselves,” or something to that effect. I'm Latino, but whatever. When you're covered in shit, it really doesn't matter, does it?

 

To make a bad day even worse, I realized I did not have my car keys. I ran back to the classroom and realized they weren’t there, either. I didn’t know if I had dropped them in my haste to get to class, because I was late, or if I had locked them in my car. All I knew was that I was stuck on campus with no pants and no way to get home. I had a few quarters, but how was I going to manage this? I knew I had to call my mom to come and pick me up, but how?

 

 

I found a back exit to the building in the basement, the one the maintenance folks use when they unload garbage and dumpsters into garbage trucks, and I left through there. Then I ran about ½ a mile in my bright, fire-engine red sweater pants until I found a payphone, the giant bulbous crotch-knot bobbing up and down like an obscene signal, inviting attention from would be gawkers and perverted onlookers, whose gazes I tried hard to avoid. Fortunately, I didn't know any of them and they were all either upper class commuter students, or faculty/facilities folks.

 

I couldn't stand the gawks, so I decided to be more discreet, like a ninja, and began to hug the terrain as best as I could, so nobody could see me. I was freezing my ass off. I think I was tearing up. Slightly.

 

I got to the pay phone, called my mom and tried to just get her to come and get me. She kept asking me all these weird questions and she was just dragging the conversation on and on and on. I just wanted to end the phone call and hide in the bushes. I told her to bring me pants and underwear and socks and she was like, “Why do you need pants? What happened to your pants? Are you ok? Are you on drugs? What’s wrong with you? Why aren’t you wearing any underwear?” I finally convinced her to meet me at a certain place, where there was suitable brush and foliage that I could use for cover as I awaited her.

 

 

My mom came and I jumped into the back seat of the car and changed. All was good until we were about to exit campus, when Lauren was at the cross-walk and saw me changing my pants in the backseat of my mother’s car. She put one and two together and my reputation was over. From that time onward, I was known as “Mr. Poopypants” on campus and I was forced to transfer to another school, upstate.

 

 

I never drank milk again.

   

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This is hilarious. Is it OK for me to laugh so hard at your expense? It's too late now, I guess, just as it was too late by the time you started sprinting for the restroom. Don't feel too bad though; I once had a similar experience, though in a more proletarian context and no hot redheads were involved, thank God. I was employed at a factory and my work station was at the far end of a long building from where the restrooms were when I was seized by a sudden, catastrophic fit of troubled bowels. I ran as fast as I could toward the john but just as I made it in the door the poop cut loose with loud, remorseless fury. I fortunately had spare uniforms in my locker and was able to clean myself up and change clothes and hide my besmirched work blues in a garbage can. I guess this sort of thing happens to everybody. Or maybe not? hahahahaha!
Talk about embarrassing moments. Was this like some sort of Skull and Bones initiation you posting this? I shit myself once but I had got my jaw broken in a fight and continued if you have ever been hit in a broken jaw you would know why. SUNY, I spent many an acid fueled hazy evening bouncing around its dormitory bars in the late 70’s. They made their own LSD on campus back then. You must be really smart to get straight A’s there the lectures were packed a hundred to a room most of the people I know that went there couldn’t hack it. The first time I ever got arrested was there when the security guy at the gate demanded that I give him my 6 pack. I did not comply and hence discovered my talent for fighting whole crowds but that’s a story in itself. Stonybrook, I guess I have better memory's of it than you. I remember a ballet class I stumbled into one night with a beautiful blond ballerina.
Indelible: the shower I took when I went home was one of the best I have ever had in my entire life. The conversation I had with my mother in the car, one of the most awkward. I took off from school for a week and when I returned, on the monday before class, my mom, in all seriousness, asked me if I wanted to borrow a pair of my grandma's "Depends."


I was mortified
Slanty: I wrote this to amuse. Laugh away.

Jack Heart: I have never returned to that campus and never will. Again.
Congratulations on the EP. :-)
congrats on the ep, and ... what can one say to that one?
But Che, how could you go to such a bastion of imperialism in the first place?
Heart: thank you.

Don Rich: I was a young man and was possessed of improper "false consciousness" at the time. Only after I witnessed countless acts of injustice and oppression and brutality did I see the light, and light up a big fat Havana cigar with my Comrade, Fidel. Hasta Siempre!
Ernesto, "holy crap" ...got milk?!

This story is a tough act to follow!! The fact that you ultimately had to switch schools says volumes about how serious this embarrassment was!

I can't tell what year this event happened, but I do remember that Dr. John Toll was president of the university for many years and he was also my aunt's cousin. The story may have made the rounds and even he had heard about 'Poopy Pants' if he had been president at that time! Thanks for sharing your story with us and I can see why you would swear off milk after this!
Designator: I hope not! 8(

Ionian: Although LL Bean is solidly Bourgeois, I did use this very bag to transport my first edition of Das Kapital, by Karl Marx. As such, it served as a container through which my awakening was achieved.
Thoreau said, "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." Every now and then I guess a guy breaks the mold and his desperation is on display for all to see. Your mom is a saint.
Wow. This is hilarious, yet incredibly painful. And, you transferred schools?? :(
Congrats on the EP. Its is almost like having celiac disease..:)
rated with hugs
I damned near pooped my pants laffing at this. In fact...oh, nooooo...
At least you got an Editor's Pick out of it!!! Great story. I have more than great respect for your honesty!
We are all of us in the soup, my friend.

Dredge the bottom.


The top is scum.





-r-
i'm not sure what you learned, here, but i hope part of it is that pride goeth before a fall, and life is one damn thing after another.
I have also decided to never wear fire-engine red sweaters again. Its a Pavlov thing
Ernesto, I feel for you on this one. I had a friend who had several spectacular vomits to his discredit but man, through no fault of your own you wind up with a rep you can't shake. Even years later it takes guts to tell it, even anonymously. And well told it is.
This made me think of Gabriel Garcia Marquez and "Life in the time of Cholera". The main character in that story was plagued with similar problems.(Although it wasn't cholera). BTW if you haven't read that book,I think you'd enjoy it.

I did that thinking after laughing so hard I almost ended up in the same condition as you did on that dreadful day.
This is some funny shit. Literally.
I'm glad your mom went with the obvious upon hearing your request, assuming you were on drugs. I mean, what mother ever wants to think her college-age son is going to crap his pants in public?

Since I use my real name here, I don't think I'll be participating in this open call. But congrats to you on your spectacular cover piece!
Three hours playing Tetris in a restroom? I am impressed with your patience...
More like 1.5 hours playing tetris, 1 hour cleaning myself up, and a half hour trying to figure out what to do, searching for my keys, coins, general panicking, etc....3 hours total in the bathroom though, yup
Giggling nonstop about this. I'll bet the breakfast eggs were tainted. And your mom's questions were priceless.
Wow, you are out of the gate and running with Emily's OC! I was transfixed! But you know, it must feel good to get it ALL out of your system by writing about it--and so amusingly and excruciatingly WELL. Sorry, bad puns emit occasionally from me.
Writing humor is a talent. You have it.
There is irony in the fact that this is on the front page and seems to have become a fixture in the top ten. Hundreds more are now learning of your humiliation. Very funny read.
You do Stony Brook proud because you write so damn well. Seriously....congrats!!!! Sorry that SB lost a good writer to an upstate school
I think Upstate eggs were easier on my belly! Plus, they have all that wonderful wine!
Funny story. This is surely one crappy way to get an EP and cover, but congratulations.
If you were to write a script for my worst nightmare, this would be it. I have come so close, so many times! But this was sooooo funny!

Lezlie
Comrade Poopy Pants I salute you!!!!!!
Noah likes nothing better than a good self-shatting story. If you ever have an encore you now know not to run. There's no way you can stand still after running and drop trou without it letting go... instead it will be the signature stiff, butt-clenched goose step to your nearest stall. And cleaning up with toilet paper and paper towels is such a bitch!
One time Noah was in a strange town and aware of the location of only a select few gas station bathrooms. And yes there was a girl at his side. Upon reaching said bathroom door he did not have that ridiculous key-on-a-paddle and before he could turn and try to make it to the office/cash register area. ... well, you know - thar she blows!
Remember when chocolate milk in those waxed paper cartoons were only two- cents per 1/2 pint?
I remember. I did steal a 1/2 pint.

There was a rash of sandwich thefts.
My Father made a cat-food sandwich.
He figured the thief would think it tuna.
Bankers and Lawyers were pilfering food.
They go into private lockers and steal lunch.
I am in Love with Cuban old cars and gardens.
P.S.
I kindergarden?
Did you eat catfish and Alpo sandwiches and barf?
I hate barfing on dinner dates after chocolate milk.
I am not accusing you of eating the any old cat-food.
Maybe the Royal Wedding Menu will be grilled fish.
Baby spinach, haricot verde, glazed chicken breast,
leeks, diver scallops, shallots, and 1/2 pint of beer?
`
Creme brulee with all the chocolate milk we can eat?
Bread pudding?
Chocolate dips?
Dip wild morel?
I go take a leek.
If I did that, I wouldn't tell anyone. lol! Congrads on EP!!
"Are you on drugs?" If I were your mother, that's what I would have asked as well -- and why weren't you wearing underwears? This will teach you to skip the wholesome breakfast your mother prepared. That's the lesson here, I think.
This is hilarious and I couldn't imagine anything so mortifying. Oh, except for my little incident at Sears. At least you can look back and laugh.
I'm sorry that this happened. But I can't stop laughing. -R-
I can think of worse things....oh, wait...no I can't......
this is the funniest story that I've heard since my friend, Marco, described his diarrhea nightmare on a trip to central America with other PhD students...the details, the imagery, your thought processes...your mom's incessant questioning...you were brilliant in working your way out of this nightmare right up until the end. You should've totally ducked the entire way home man...
Four stars! Congratulations on the EP! Rated!
Lord have mercy. That was both nightmarish and funny. I have always hated milk. It's gross even when it doesn't give one the shits. Moms are great, aren't they?
Don't try crossing into Tijuana during rush hour when you've eaten a lot of dried fruit. That's all I have to say about it.
I've heard this story over a hundred times and it just gets funnier with the re-telling! Congrats on the EP, Amigo!
This is hysterical and very worthy of the EP. Well told in retrospect. I can see this happening to me. I seem to be prone to food poisoning, which had to be what happened here. R
Well, I've done enough cringing for one day!

That's why I always wear dark pants. Though in this case, I don't think it would have made any difference.
I may never be one of your favorite writers but you are now one of mine. You have courage to which I can only aspire. Thank you for putting some of my own most humiliating moments in merciful perspective.
Mary Beth (formerly known as Droopy Drawers)
Oh damn. If a Left-Wing Hippie Hispanic Hero can tell such a magnificently self-deprecatingly hysterical story, what are we mere mortal defenders of truth, justice, and the American Way to do? (Cause there's just no way I can top that, um, shit.)

Anyway, that's a classic, kudos. And well told.

BF
This was so full of the funny. I went to an orientation at Stony Brook and had an awful experience but NOTHING like this. I ended going to SUNY Albany where I had my share of mortifyng expriences. Mercifully, none involving the bowels, or the bladder. All that strategy and Lauren had to be there? Oy, glad you can tell it so very well.
This was the most humiliating thing anyone has ever admitted