It’s the summer of 2005 in Los Angeles. Paris Hilton is queen, candy-colored Juicy Couture velour track suits reign supreme, everyone is toting tiny Chihuahuas around as if they are handbags, and I experience the Shock of the Shart for the first time in my life.
Juicy Couture has just come out with their strapless terry cloth dresses and I am the proud new owner of a white one. I am pretty excited about it.
It is easy to get on and off, so it quickly becomes my ‘post-shower getting ready” dress. Sometimes I wear it over jeans with heels and cute accessories and think I look, like, real damn good. I leave the house with a little bounce in my strut because I am so on trend. Remember the dresses over jeans moment? Yeah, I wish I didn’t either. Ick. And we weren’t even wearing skinny jeans then! We were putting these damn dresses over boot cut jeans! What in the literal f*$&?
I can’t with that. 🙈🤮 But it will come back around, mark my words.
Anyway, one day as I sit at my vanity in my white Juicy dress while getting ready for an audition, I feel the urge of a little toot coming on.
I lift one cheek off of my stool a bit, you know, to give that toot a little breathing room, and all of the sudden I feel this warm explosion shoot up my back. Dear God. I look around to see if anyone has witnessed this. I know I’m home alone, but when you crap your pants, for some reason you need to be sure nobody has seen you do this.
I slowly lean forward as I turn around to ensure that what I think has happened has actually happened and indeed, it has. I have sharted and I am shocked. The Shock of the Shart is real.
It’s up my back and all over my vanity stool. Thank God for the snug fit of the bandeau top on this dress, as it has acted like a terry cloth dam and stopped the overflow of the shart. Without this brilliant design from the Juicy team, the amount of pressure that backed up this Vesuvian explosion would have surely launched it into my hair.
My bathroom is carpeted and the shower is about 4 feet to my left. How can I get there without getting any of this mess on the carpet? I must do my best to slowly get the vanity stool out from under me without having a spillover, while remaining bent over so that the shart up my back doesn’t trickle down my legs and onto the carpet. This is going to be tricky.
It is a deliberate dance getting up from the stool as I ready myself for a horizontal sloth-like shart shuffle to the shower. Steadily I creep, side step by side step, until I make it to the shower and I can finally stand upright.
As I wiggle out of my (quite literally) Juicy dress, it is clear that the damage is irreparable. My favorite garment cannot be salvaged.
Needless to say, I missed my audition. When they asked why, I said I had a personal emergency. I mean, if sharting all over yourself isn’t a personal emergency, I don’t know what is. My agent pressured me on what the “emergency” was. I got frustrated and I shouted, “I shit my pants, okay.”
The next day my agency dropped me.
Now, this wasn’t the first audition I had missed, but this one was definitely the deal breaker. Perhaps they thought I was lying or maybe they just needed actresses on their roster who had a little more control over their farts. Maybe I could have gone on to have huge success with that agency, who knows.
The lesson here is this: Don’t trust a toot. You just never know. It could be a lurking shart explosion disguised as an innocent gas leak that changes your whole day, or perhaps the whole course of your life.
P.S. The audition was for a Charmin commercial. I shit you not.
Don’t Trust That Toot,
Miss Sarah B.
Sarah Blackman © 2018