Many years ago as children my brother and I were out shopping with our mother. My brother comes running to me, his eyes wide with excitement. “You gotta come see this!” he exclaimed. I followed him, trying to keep up with his frantic pace. What could be so amazing? We were kids what the fuck could it be? An infinite candy genie? Pants that fit? Self-multiplying puppies who shit dreams and more puppies and the puppies rise up on their hind legs to whisper secrets to us? It was none of those. At the end of the rainbow was our mother. But something was off. Her stride was deliberately awkward and reminiscent of the walking style of a midget with no knees. Her face was stressed and the air around her was foul. “We have to leave right now” she said. “Why?” I asked with innocence. “We. Have. To Fucking. Go. Right. Now.” I look down and noticed something fall from her shorts. I lean in to take a closer look. What could it be? Is that…shit? Sweet white Jesus it was shit! It was all so clear now. And if it wasn’t then my brother would clear up the confusion. “MOM SHIT HER PANTS!” he yelled with pride.
For the next few years, that event was marital ammo. Hearing dad proudly brag about his expert bowel control was often the response to any insult from our mother. That was until one fateful day when things took a turn he shit his pants. He couldn’t believe it. His pants, a once sacred bastion of holding it in, were now sullied with his butt release. In an act of desperation he took the cotton shame he called underwear and threw it into the woods. She must never know. No one must ever know. This is what coursed through his mind. In retrospect, maybe dad shouldn’t have tried to force that fart.
My brother and I looked at each other. Without speaking a word we knew we were the last of a dying breed within the family. We were the last to carry the Walsh family name without shitting ourselves. It was now a race. A race where finishing first meant greasing the back of your pants and last place was a sweet place known as not shitting yourself because you’re an adult. There can be only one!
The rules are simple; shit your pants and you lose. But what counts as shitting yourself? Who can enter the competition? Babies shit themselves as a hobby do they lose automatically? Here are the specifics:
- You must be part of the Walsh family either through blood, marriage, or adoption.
- To give babies a fair chance the competition begins when a child reaches five years of age.
- Shitting in an adult diaper does count as shitting yourself.
- Offending brown will only count as shit if there is volume to it. Skid marks do not count.
- Shitting your pants due to cheating does not count. Cheating includes putting ex-lax in drinks, force-feeding someone soap, locking someone in a warm room for days, pulling shit out of someone’s ass hole, putting foreign shit in someone’s pants as they sleep, etc.
- Shitting your self due to dying does count. Murdering someone to force them to shit themselves is cheating.
- Anyone who shits themselves must report their failure on Facebook for all the world to see. If you do not have a Facebook account one will be appointed to you. We are not responsible for what content you may post on the aforementioned proxy account.
These are the rules. This is the challenge. Do you have what it takes?