Why Death Sucks, But Crapping Your Pants Is Always Funny

...a story not about about parenting or marriage, but about loss and the immature hilarity of poop.

In life, there are so many extraordinary moments that stay with us for as long as we live.  Some are beautiful, some are graceful, some are hilarious, some are horrifying, some are embarrassing, and some just really suck.  Whatever the case, they are extraordinary because they immediately become memories that we carry around in our internal 90’s fanny pack. 

The really cool part about it is that so many of these cherished time capsules and figments of who we used to be are relate-able to other people.  We talk about it, we debate it, we laugh together, we cry together…because we've all been there.

We have all seen death.  Not only are we headed in that direction at some point, but it is all around us.  Every day.  Sometimes on the News.  Sometimes on our Facebook feed. Sometimes in our community.  Sometimes right across the street. Sometimes in our home.  Sometimes in our hearts.

Death sucks. 

There’s really no other way to put it.  Fuck you, Death.  You are a very real bitch and we hate you.  Don’t take it too hard, though, we hate life too half the time.  We’re funny little idiots in that way.

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His name was Logan. 

He was an internally tortured but externally goofy soul, and we all loved him for it.  He was my Best Friend.  For PR purposes, I should probably say “is” and play along to society’s depressing optimism, but he’s not anymore, because he is dead. 

He IS, however, my favorite memory.  My best, even.  I remember him every day.  I remember his face every time I think I've forgotten.  I remember his laugh because it always started with a ridiculous “egghhhhhh” sound like a constipated walrus.  I remember his temper tantrums on the golf course when he’d send the grass farther than the ball.  I remember the way he’d smirk every time he had something incredibly embarrassing to tell me, which was practically every day.  I remember his passion.  I remember his anger.  I remember his pain. I remember his death.

But mostly, I remember the time he shit himself.

We were sitting in the front row of our history class junior year of High School, being little assholes.   We were chatting quietly back and forth while Mr. H was lecturing and glaring at us with his famous, “I literally hate you,” look.  Logan glanced over at me and lifted his thigh.  I knew what was coming and being that I was most unfortunately immune to caring at that point because it happened so often, I just shook my head and looked ahead as if I gave a shit about the lecture at hand.

“Dude…”

I looked back over at him and his face was suddenly pale, his eyes wide and mouth gaped open. 

“I’m pretty sure I just sharted.”

I obviously laughed and gave very little support to his hilariously horrifying mishap, but did offer up an assurance test.

“Bounce up and down.”

He bounced, there was a distinctive “squish.”  I heard the sound before he shot me the most sincere look of horror I have ever seen with a rather dramatic *gasp*.  Heads turned.  His face turned red.  I laughed hysterically.  He whispered over to me to keep my mouth shut before waddling out of the classroom.  He was gone a few seconds before Mr. H began to sniff the air in obvious disapproval.

           

“Who just completely destroyed the air quality in this room?”

I promised I would keep my mouth shut.  I promised.  I wasn't going to say a damn word…and then I saw the damp circle he left on his chair. 

I lost it.

“Logan just shit himself and I’m not even sorry!”

I quickly made my departure as the classroom full of tiny little assholes erupted in laughter and further plans for humiliation.  After the fact I did feel pretty bad about it, but let’s be real…the dude shit his pants in a high school classroom.  It had to be done. 

He was kind of pissed, but not really.  He embraced the embarrassment, welcomed it even.  It became a legend.  HE became a legend.  You’re welcome, motherfucker. 

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It took me a long time to figure this out, but death is quick.  It happens fast and the immediate aftermath leaves no survivors, not even the living.  The long term, though, is a lot different.  The fact of death is long passed.  It is no longer relevant.  The only thing that actually matters anymore is that there is a memory in its place. 

Everybody has seen death, in some facet or another.  Everybody has their own internal 90’s fanny pack.  You hold on to the beauty, you hold on to the grace, you hold on to the laughter, to the humility, to the tears, to the pain.  I urge you to keep the beauty, keep the grace, keep the laughter.  Let go of the rest.  That pain, those tears, the memories of grief and sorrow, they don’t belong to that person any more.  They only belong to you.  You have the power to free yourself of the burden.  You have the right.  Use it.

The next time someone says to me, “I’m sorry to hear about your loss,” I’m going to smile and thank them, and then I’m going to say:

“Yeah, death sucks.  But did I ever tell you about the time he shit his pants?”

And I’m going to laugh.  And I’m going to be at peace because it was funny and funny things make you happy, no matter how inappropriate. And in that memory and all the rest to accompany it, he will be happy too. 

We will be at peace together, for all my years to come.

I literally have no idea what is going on with my outfit here.  What the fuck...

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