written by Adam Zed
When I was thinking about something to write for The Real Johnson, I had a plethora of ideas--as I always do--ranging from the political to the financial as well as the world of video games and boobs.
I thought about how I, like Johnson, might expertly craft articles ripping the rug from under the feet of our oppressors; potentially causing civil unrest that would lead to a new world for the downtrodden masses.
I was going to talk about something like that, and maybe someday I still will, but instead, I want to present you with a story that I remembered from my childhood, that involves another Real Johnson topic of interest: Poop.
When I was twelve my friends down the street bought a trampoline. They only lived two doors down and one afternoon I wanted to get in a few jumps after a morning of kicking ass at Mario 3. So I headed down to their place in my best Batman sweatshirt, sweatpants, and my sweet mullet haircut, only to discover they weren't home.
It wasn't really a problem for me that I wouldn't have an audience because, I must confess, I was a heavy kid and by no means was I built for jumping. I had a good solid jump owing to my thick center of gravity, but flips and summersaults weren’t really my thing.
So I got on the trampoline and started to bounce.
Unfortunately, as soon as did, something in what I like to call my cheeseburger-gut shook angrily. I was only on there for a few minutes when it became painfully obvious that something was wrong. The contents of my body had clearly shifted and they wanted to depart.
To put this in no uncertain terms: I needed to poop something fierce and it seemed that my body had decided to tell me at the very last minute. I needed to get back to my house faster than my tiny legs could carry me. My flat footed and hasty dismount from the trampoline didn’t help my situation and it seemed obvious that my rectum wanted to explode out of my butt like a chocolate grenade.
I started to run.
I got out of their backyard and was through to the next, trying to run and hold in a poop-o-lanche that felt like it could take out small Swiss village. I had tears in my eyes as I made it to my back yard.
Finally the back door of my house was seconds away and I had already mapped my entire route from the door to the bathroom.
I was going to be OK.
I reached the stairs and had the door handle in my hand.
And then it happened.
In what I can only describe as an explosion of tears, screams, and excrement, I shit myself.
Still running though, I slipped on the wet linoleum of my kitchen and literally skidded halfway across the floor, leaving a brown trail behind me.
To this day, I vividly remember that as I lay there silent and defeated, I looked down at my sweatshirt and saw Batman’s stern face. I remember thinking, "Batman doesn’t poo his pants."
Nor does Batman's mom ever have to help her son of the floor, laughing as she does, trying to be supportive as she carries him at arm's length into a shower.
Ever since that day, I have tried to live by the lesson I taught myself that day.
Batman doesn't poo his pants.
Assuming that, hopefully, sharting doesn't count.
Adam Zed is a Toronto-based comedian. Check out his website, Adam Show, here.