Underwhere?

Earlier in the day I mentioned underwear briefly. . .I'll give you a minute if you missed that one. . .and I'd like to share another story about this handy little accessory.

At the Brewery we recently hosted the Young Liberals, who partied the night away, and really rocked the place out. But most Young Liberals saved some of their best rocking for when Prime Minister in Waiting Paul Martin arrived to smile down upon his disciples.

The excitement for some was too much.

The excitement for one young man was too much for his colon to bear.

As the dazzle and sparkle faded, and the music died, we began to pick up the pieces of what will stand, for many weeks at least, as the largest collection of Young Liberals in our Brewery at one time. It was in this afterglow that the discovery was made.

One young fellow, bullied and overwhelmed by his own digestive system, had clearly had an accident.
To say that 'he shit his pants' would fall short of capturing the full picture.
For the faint of heart, or those eating pudding, drinking chocolate milk, or enjoying a slice of pecan pie, turn away from the screen.
For those who wish to bear my burden with me, read on.

In what appeared to be one, perhaps two, completely unregulated colonic releases, this Young Liberal had turned his underwear into an contemporary art piece. The impact on his drawers was so devastating--so saturating-- that he chose to leave them behind. Some Marine he would make.
The abandoned undergarment lay on the floor of stall three, languishing in a landscape equally devastated by additional shotgun discharges of efluence. This was no longer stall three, not to me. This was Vesuvius. This was Mount St. Helens. This was a land so depressed and scared by a digestive eruption that it bore no resemblance to the stall three we had all known. It was a sight so shocking that even now, if I try to remember stall three the way it was before the accident, the only image that I can conjure is of a pasture, filled with daisies, and a lone unicorn standing placidly in the summer's breeze. Clearly, that is not the way stall three once was.

If I ever find myself in a position where I'm considering whether my underwear should stay or go, I wonder what I would choose.