Dave

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Thursday, May 31, 2007

The Real Story of Bob Squarepants


This is somewhat of a departure from the theme of Silver Creek and San Antonio, because this story takes place in California, but I am prompted to tell it because of some recent medications I have started taking. The doctor gave me a warning and so did the pharmacist; some users may experience irritable bowls and diahrreah when first beginning to use this medication. Though thankfully, I have not had this problem, all this talk of bodily functions and such reminded me of the time I crapped my pants at a cookout.

Okay, I was 3 years old, but to me this was a significant moment.


We lived in
Sacramento, CA at the time as my dad was stationed at McClellan AFB. I don’t recall the specific date or reason for the event (I guess it would be a bit much to ask a 3-year-old to carry a day-runner), but we were at what I believe was a base recreation facility.

This may come as a shock to you, but I come from parents who enjoy a slug or two of the Happy Sauce occasionally, and this event was no different. As my parents enjoyed the company of friends in lawn chairs around the grill, my siblings and I were off to explore the recreation area and keep ourselves out of trouble. Before you freak out and call the Child Protective Services, keep in mind that I am 43 and back in my day, we didn’t hover over kids for fear that some pervert would snatch them and take them to England to be brought into the Kabala Cult by Madonna. So, it was no big deal that I just wandered around and enjoyed the sights. Until I had to take a massive dump.

Not to worry, I knew exactly where the portable toilets were set up and I quickly made my way there. What I did not know was that apparently, 40 other people had to take a dump just like me.

So, I’m standing in line patiently waiting my turn for a quick moment in the potty where I can conduct an urgent #2. I wait, and wait, and wait. And even though the lines to the two porta-potties serving the crowd of at least 500 people is moving, it simply isn’t moving fast enough.

I won’t go on and on about every emotion I felt and every muscle I flexed and clinched in an effort to lock down the sphincter; lets just suffice it to say, I was a little kid who was several people away from being next, and I was already formulating my plan for when the inevitable happened. When I would surely shit my pants in front of a crowd of people.


I honestly thought I had made it. Luckily, a group of three or four drunken Airmen were in ahead of the line, and not a single one of them were shy-pissers. In other words, once they got their shot in the barrel, they let loose like it was a random urinalysis and the observer was a hot chick wanting to see wieners. If you have ever been in the military, you can appreciate that that will never be the case.

Sadly though, the lady directly behind them and in front of me who weighed about 240 clearly had a huge transaction to make.
I’m not quite sure why we equate fat people with taking huge dumps. I mean, if they crap so much, wouldn’t they be thin? But I digress.

So this lady is in the port-a-let in the heat of the day (I’ll let you use your own imagination as to how this little area smelled with all the traffic) and I’m starting to think that they had a mirror and free make-up samples in there, because she is taking a long time. At this point, if I were my age now, I would have the nerve to simply announce to the crowd that if someone did not vacate the toilet, I was going to physically spray shit all over anyone within a ten foot perimeter of my 3 year old ass. But, as a 3 year old, I didn’t have any idea that those tactics could work.

So, just as the large crapping/make-up applying lady exited the john and held the door for me, I shit my pants. It felt warm and frankly, it felt good. Anyway, this lady says, “Here you go, hun, you’re next.” Having just shit myself, I politely said, “No thanks”, and turned to walk away in search of my parents.

The rest of this story is not important and only involves me having to whisper into my mom’s ear that I pooped my pants and having her loudly question for all the drunken adults around us, “You pooped your pants?” Following a long ride home, sitting on my knees and facing the back of the station wagon (so as not to further smash the poop into my underwear and pants), my mom cleaned me like a newborn and we returned (to my humiliation) to the party in fresh clothes.

The disguise did not work and thus, all the liquored up parents and most of the teenage hooligans proclaimed me as the goofy little kid who crapped his pants.
But, this is not even relevant to the story about Bob Squarepants.

Please do not be confused by Sponge Bob Square Pants. That is a different guy. He is a cartoon and lives in a pineapple under the sea. He is a sponge, according to my kids.

No, good ol’ Bob Squarepants was a kid in my class in the 2nd grade. You see, one day, we are all sitting there doing whatever 2nd graders do – you know, it is the toughest grade – and we were intently watching the teacher scribble crap across the chalkboard. Maybe I shouldn’t use the term “crap” just yet, as surely it will come into play very shortly.

So, I’m sitting there and this little girl raises her hand and the teacher calls on her.
Okay, You’ll have to use your imagination for this one because I simply don’t have the colorful vocabulary to accurately describe how funny I see this in my mind even today.

The little girl said, “Teacher, somebody smells.” As she said this, she discretely used her elbow to motion towards Bob, the little kid in the seat in front of her. Oh, and after her report of the toxic situation, she quietly placed the thumb and finger against her nose and then put her head down on her desk. Little drama queen, even in the 2nd grade.


Now by today’s standards, you’d think that all of the kids in the class would start laughing and hooting and jumping out of their seats. This was not the case back in my day when teachers ruled the classroom. Instead, we were all curiously concerned as to what could possibly smell; after all, we knew that Bob was potty trained, as were the rest of us.


Anyway, very quietly, Mrs. Forrester walked over to Bob and took him by the hand and escorted him into the hall. All of us kids looked at each other, shrugging shoulders wondering if Bob was in trouble or was ill or whatever might be wrong.
Strangely, not long after she left with Bob, Mrs. Forrester returned and opened the windows to the class. This was sort of odd since it was wintertime and the heaters along the wall were actually on. I’m not the brightest bulb in the bunch, but I pretty much figured out that Bob had shit himself.

So, anyway, this is like 2 in the afternoon and school is out at 3. Bob never did come back to the class but we didn’t think much of it. We get out and we are all standing out by the bus loading area and kids are filing onto their buses and other kids are walking home (the ones, like me, who lived close to school) and I started playing marbles with this fat kid named Richard, who used to always wait until the very last minute to get on the bus.

It seemed that, unlike today where most of the kids are fat, back then, the one or two portly kids got picked on, so the longer he waited to get on the bus, the less likely he was to be made sport of by the old kids.
So, to Richard’s delight, the bus was waiting and waiting and waiting, and it occurred to me that that kid who crapped his pants, Bob, had not gotten on the bus yet. So, we just played
marbles and the bus waited.

About 5 minutes after the bus should have departed the school (and long after I should have been on my way home), we witnessed the most incredible sight a grade school child could see.

Let me set the stage for those of you born after 1975. We didn’t keep a spare set of clothes at school for such an event as a second grader shitting himself in the middle of class.

Okay, that pretty much sets the stage.

Here comes the principal Mrs. Weasner, by all accounts a hottie (at least according to that old janitor with lots of tattoos who smoked cigarettes), holding the hand of Bob. Bob it seems shat himself to such a level of disarray, that his soiled slacks, and I can only surmise Fruit of the Looms, could not be cleaned sufficiently for him to wear or even accompany home on a public school bus.

So your first thought might be that Mrs. Weasner had him parading before our stunned class nekkid as a jaybird (Ray Stevens – no less), but no, our head administrator has fashioned a brown paper shopping bag into a pair of shorts for good ol’ Bob.

Please understand; back in our day, we took tennis shoes along with our gym shorts and shirt for PE. So the norm was for little boys and little girls to wear what we referred to as “street shoes”. You can equate these to “dress shoes” by today’s standards. So here is Bob Squarepants wearing his button down shirt, his $12 loafers and a grocery bag stapled at the sides so it would not fall down. The crazy thing was, the bottom of the paper bag remained perfectly straight as if it was full of 16 boxes of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. I mean, this kid was wearing square pants.

Mrs. Weasner had actually cut holes in the bottom of a paperbag and put this kid in them to insure a bit of decency as he rode home on the bus to explain to his parents why he was san pants.

Now since I didn’t ride the bus, I wasn’t able to first hand observe what I assumed would be a spectacle of finger pointing and ridicule. But the next day, I asked Richard about it and he said that even the 6th graders rode home in stunned silence, not a single kid asking Bob where his regular clothes were.

So naturally, I was the kid who started calling Bob, “Bob Squarepants”.

I have no animosity towards the guy who came up with the cartoon Sponge Bob Square Pants, but I’m guessing he was related to the kid who shit himself in the 2nd grade.

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San Antonio, TX, United States
I love to observe the odd things happening around me as I go about my day. I especially like it when I can get a picture of people being themselves. Here, I attempt to report the various people and events I have encountered in my neighborhood, and my city. I'd also love to hear from you. Feel free to e-mail your experiences and photos of life in San Antonio.

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