I have nothing. Well I have other things, but I currently don’t have the ability to create any original content. This is strange to me, mostly because I spent/wasted four years in undergrad majoring in English. As you could imagine, a fair amount of creative writing is required to complete a BA in English, yet, like George R.R. Martin, I still have no pages. Connie has been extremely patient with me, but not even she can remain optimistic forever. So, since I’m bankrupt when it comes to original topics, I’ve decided to recount a story from the past that is loosely tied to working in the craft industry. Of course there has to be a theme, any respectable blog has one correct? Well maybe not, but I’ve chosen embarrassment. The best thing about embarrassment is that there are few things more amusing to other people (see the definition of schadenfreude, now you truly get me). The following story has been heard by most people around the brewery, because that’s how I deal with uncomfortable feelings, I talk about them. So let’s go back to 2013 (remember I was a 33 year old adultish person)…
Through a strange set of circumstances, I agreed to embark on a 14 day juice cleanse at the urging of my wife. To this day I’m not entirely sure if she was more enamored with the thought of a healthier me, or all the pain and discomfort sure to come if I signed on. Regardless, I started consuming nothing but fruit and its juices. The first week was tough, but I was pretty sure I could make it. A week in and pretty much every decision I made first had to pass the bathroom test (i.e. am I within a brisk thirty second walk of a bathroom). If the answer was no, then whatever was needed wasn’t happening. Fast forward to day ten and my constant planning had to that point paid dividends. That night, I had to pick up some 1/6 barrel kegs to bring to the brewery because we were desperately short on shell inventory. Jake, our assistant head brewer was nice enough to meet me when I got there to help unload. Things were going great until I had just passed one of the North Bend exits, and I felt the now all too familiar opening gurgle. I immediately starting practicing controlled breathing, while at the same time filling my head with thoughts of cement hardening and enterprising beavers putting the last stick on the dam. I exited at the next opportunity and floored it toward the nearest gas station. A powerful movement blew apart my mental defenses, at which point I correctly surmised that I wouldn’t be able to make it to a toilet in time. No worries, I’ll just go down this dark road, pull over and use my human paint sprayer to add a nice brown accent to the nearby foliage. As I pulled off and went to grab the roll of toilet paper that had been recently added to my life’s utility belt, a powerful tremor erupted and I audibly grunted. I thought, “Fuck toilet paper, I can waddle back and clean myself properly after the grand expulsion.” I opened the door, lifted my leg up and out, and realized with horror that this was the wrong idea. Not sure what the right idea would have been, but moving in a way to increase the diameter of my anus definitely wasn’t it. I jumped out of the car as the muddy river surged.
Thinking back I’d estimate at least two pounds of human milkshake slid down my pant legs and started to splat on the concrete. After dealing with the inevitable hit to my self esteem balloon, I got naked and started to clean myself as best I could. A whole roll of toilet paper, a small packet of wet wipes, a clean pair of sweats and some spare flip flops made me presentable to anyone without a functioning nose. The next step was to call my wife, scream at her about being done with the cleanse, tell her I hated her, and hang up. About an hour later I pulled up to the brewery and met Jake. As we were pulling kegs out he asked about the crumpled up jeans in the back of the truck. Now I’m not proud of what I did next, but I’m human and inherently weak if you listen to a few of the major religions. Instead of telling the truth, which is always the best option kids, I said, “don’t touch that, I slipped and fell into the biggest pile of dog shit I’ve ever seen.” He quickly recoiled and the rest of the unloading went smoothly (upon hearing the real story a month later, Jake said, “I knew it wasn’t dog shit, no dog can poop that much.”).
Moral of the story: I’ve been drinking craft beer almost daily since that fateful night, and have yet to shit my pants with the same amount of violence (most instances have been more of the oops, I shouldn’t have farted variety). So remember, always drink craft beer, because it’s good and might help you not crap yourself.