Guys, I’m getting really sick and tired of hearing people make jokes that punch down. It’s fucking old. It’s fucking tired. It doesn’t make you edgy or cool – it simply makes you a bore, and what’s worse, a bigot. The comedy gods (myself and other bloggers) decided long ago that good comedy punches up, towards things we don’t like, not down, towards things we do like.
While racist jokes and rape jokes are obviously off limits, care is needed to analyze each and every thing that we laugh about, and make sure that absolutely no one is a target unless they score a perfect hundred on that Buzzfeed privilege test.
That being said, I think it’s time we called for a moratorium on jokes about shitting your pants accidentally. No one chooses to do this – it happens on accident. It’s just like making fun of victims of a natural disaster, and if you were doing that, people would rightfully call you an asshole.
Now, I understand that are a lot of people are unaware how offensive “shart” jokes are – I was not aware of it myself. That was until, it happened to me. Ten months ago today, the following occurred:
It was the dog days of summer. The number six train was crowded and I stood towards the center of the car with my good friend Marybeth beside me. The air was viscous, and the little spots of breathing room available to each passenger were regularly invaded by bodies shifting with the movements of the train.
I felt my stomach rumble. I knew I had to fart. I smiled and tried to hide my pleasure as I leaned towards Marybeth and whispered:
Contracting my abdominal muscles with full force, I pressed out what I had mistakenly confused for a fart. The accompanying silence and the ominous gravity to the ejection radiated through my body. I knew immediately that I had shit myself, but I had yet to consciously accept the reality of it.
“Oh no,” I whimpered.
“What, what is it?” asked Marybeth
Without looking at her, I took her hand into my own, and ran it across the seat of my pants.
“What does that feel like to you?”
Marybeth recoiled in disgust.
“Gross! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
“Keep your voice down,” I shot at her in a low tone. “We’re fine everyone, we’re fine!” I announced to the rest of the passengers, feigning a smile.
There was perhaps four or five seconds of placidity in which I deluded myself into thinking my action would go unnoticed. But then, the smell set in. The air grew even thicker, and it felt as if I had not only shoved Marybeth’s hand into my mess, but my own face as well. The crowd quickly took notice.
“That lady shit her pants!”
“Gross! This bitch just fucking shit herself!”
“Now now, everyone. Shut up,” I sheepishly offered, trying to control the situation. “We don’t know that. Maybe Marybeth shit herself? Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
Marybeth was already in tears as she looked for a place to wipe my feces off of her hand. As the smell filled the subway car, women shrieked, men cursed, and babies wailed. When we had finally reached the next stop, the car shit out its passengers just as I had shit my pants – ejecting them into a violent disgusting mess on the subway platform.
“Now, Marybeth,” I began, expecting my associate at my side. “You’re going to have to take the blame for this…“ I was cut short. Marybeth, holding her beshitted hand as far from her body as possible, ran off and up the stairs before I could instruct her on our best course of action.
“Marybeth you awful cunt!” I cursed at her. But it was to no avail, as she was already gone. Now, I was alone, and I had to think quickly. I had to find a way to disguise myself before leaving the platform. My apartment was several blocks away, and I had very visibly shit myself. Not to mention the smell.
I surveyed the platform, and at the far end I spotted a woman paying for a magazine at a stand as her child licked at a chocolate ice cream cone behind her.
“Perfect,” I thought to myself.
I moved quickly, positioned myself behind the woman and acted as if I were looking over the magazines on the top rack. I took a calculated step backwards, forcing my shitty ass into the ice cream cone and face of the child. I felt a cold squish as my bottom made contact with his face, perfectly sandwiching the ice cream between us. The eagle had landed.
“Oh great. Your kid got ice cream all over my pants!” I yelled out as the woman turned to her crying child.
“Excuse me?” began the woman.
“I don’t have time for this! I’m late for an important meeting!”
I ran off, up the platform stairs, and back to my apartment. All fifteen blocks, I yelled at all who even so much as glanced at me.
“It’s just ice cream everyone! It’s just ice cream! My name is Marybeth!”
When I got home, I slammed the door shut and locked it three times over. I swore that I would get revenge on Marybeth, and I buried my face in my hands and wept.
Friends, shit-farting (not “sharting” by the way, which is a derogatory slur by virtue of it being an abbreviation) is no laughing matter. It’s not a joke. It’s not a goof. It’s a serious thing that happens to real people, and that makes it something we should be mindful of.
Next time you get the urge to crack a joke about shit-farting, next time you think it’s funny to let that word slip from your lips, remember that what’s about to come out of your mouth might not be exactly what you thought of it beforehand. Remember that you’re laughing at victims. You’re laughing at real people like me.