Shit and Vick

So yesterday I farted. Farting, at least in my opinion, is totally natural, sometimes humorous, sometimes embarrassing, and most times necessary. In other words, farting is cool. I am known for my farting at the corner bar. Farting is cool unless you shit your pants. I farted yesterday and I shit my pants. Unfortunately this has been happening to me just a bit too much lately. Farting and shitting your pants is ok (well, tolerable) if you’re at home close to the bathroom or at your parents’ house. You just change your underwear or put them in a baggie for the ride home. In either case you can rectify the problem within a couple of minutes. Yesterday I was neither at home nor at my parents’ house. No, I was driving. And I was no where near close to home. I was like out in the boonies (which, to me, is anywhere more than ten miles out from my house). I was driving, sitting in my own shit, unable to pull over to use a restroom because I was 110% sure it had leaked through my pants leaving an obvious wet spot for everyone to see. And it smelled. Good God it smelled. I found myself hanging my head out the window like a dog to avoid the stench. It was warm. It was wet. And I was helpless to do anything to fix it until I got home. When I got home I threw my clothes in the wash and soaked and sprayed my car seat. This morning, even after having the windows open over night, my car still smelled like shit. I sprayed cologne on my ass just to make sure nothing had transferred to my clean work pants. Pretty sure I was ok (smell free) after that. I found a plastic bag to put on the seat for the ride home. Fortunately this whole story is completely full of shit.

But I’ll bet you Michael Vick shit his pants once or twice today.

I saw a poll on ESPN.com today, 69% of voters thought that Michael Vick would be convicted. 69%? Dude, the guy’s fucked. My buddy Len Pasquarelli (Don Vito look-a-like) reported that “since [the year] 2000, the U.S. attorney's office in Atlanta boasts a conviction rate of between 95-96 percent.” In non-math terms, the chances of Michael Vick being convicted are about the same as the chances that I’ll have just a little bit too much to drink tonight ($4.25 pitcher night!). Or, for those mean and cruel people who just want to laugh and make fun of me, the chances of Michael Vick getting off the charges are about as good as me getting it on with a 5’10” Brazilian model tonight. Wait, let me rephrase that, as good as me getting off with a woman who has both her arms and legs and is still semi-conscious. Ain’t gonna happen.