I Shit My Pants At Julian Edelman's House

I’m a “when in Rome” traveler. If I’m in your locale, I’m participating in your local customs. I’m eating your food, drinking your drinks, appropriating your culture. The whole thing. I like feeling a part of things.

So, naturally, when I got to LA last week, I immediately started drinking Hailey Bieber Erewhon smoothies and eating raw fish. Now, I wouldn’t necessarily call “raw fish” an LA-specific delicacy. It’s been pretty popular throughout most of the world for basically all of eternity, but it was on a lot of the menus- so I kept getting it.

On top of being a when in Rome traveler, I’m also extremely susceptible to food borne illnesses. It started when I got e. Coli as a kid and continues to this day. Doctors will tell you it’s because I treat my body like the plumbing system in Mumbai, I’ll swear on a bible that it’s just luck of the draw. 

The point is that these two habits of mine, being a “when in Rome” guy and consistently getting violently ill due to my food routines, combined and combusted last week in one of the worst possible places: Julian Edelman’s home. 

Now, it’s important to also know that I’m a New England Patriots fan. I’ve been to jail for players who’ve donned the Flying Elvis, so you could say I’m a pretty big one. Being in the home of Julian Edelman, a co-creator of some of my life’s greatest memories, was surreal to me. I didn’t realize it was going to be but the second I crossed the threshold into his entryway I was hit with the “whoa… this is nuts” epiphany. The kind I haven’t had in a while. 

It’s also important to note that prior to crossing that threshold I had been getting violently ill for nine-ish hours. I’d been up all night, getting so sick that my knees hurt from spending so much time on the bathroom floor. As the sky changed from night to morning I had to change my vomit posture, now standing to puke and save my knees from the tiled bathroom floor. I almost called and cancelled the interview but, instead, I chugged the four liters of bottled water in my room priced at $11 each and got my ass to Edelman’s house. You know, the show must go on and all that. 

“The show” went on, and it went on swimmingly if you ask me. We talked about the Brady Four, early Barstool days, Les Mascots, Super Bowls, all that great stuff. I was locked in, no one in the room had a fuckin’ clue that my insides were doing flips I hadn’t seen since playing Rollercoaster Tycoon at the Fall River Public Library. As soon as the show wrapped, I calmly asked to use the bathroom. I didn’t necessarily know what exactly had to happen in there, I just knew I needed to be in a bathroom. 

Much to my chagrin, Julian excitedly pointed to the nearest wall & said, “Dude! It’s right there!” 

Even when my gut is at its’ healthiest, even when I’ve had nothing but salad and grilled chicken for days (I have no idea if that’s a good meal for gut health), I want the bathroom to be miles away. If I ask you where the bathroom is, I’m hoping you pull out a map and give me the coordinates.  Directions, at the very least.  “Walk out the house, take a left, then a right, in 1,000 paces you’ll see an outhouse. If you get to the Weeping Willow that was struck by lightning in ’82, you’ve gone too far.” That kinda shit. 

But that’s not where the bathroom was. It was in the same room that we were in. 

Separated by drywall no thicker than a toaster strudel.

I acted like the close bathroom was the best news I’d ever heard, obviously. 

“Oh perfect! Wow, what convenience. Convenience over privacy every day of the week, if you ask me!” I muttered as I set off, once again lying to everyone in earshot. 

I closed the door behind me and soaked in the calm. I was sick, yes. But it was over. All I had to do was weather the storm of goodbyes and I would soon be back in the comfort of my hotel room. I decided to just go for a pee in the room, don’t test my luck. Everyone was close enough to hear… let alone smell… God forbid taste. 

Well, it’s hard to poop without a pee. They go together. But a pee without a poop? That’s common practice, right? Right, unless you ate rotten shrimp for dinner the night before. Then, when you’re sitting in the bathroom of one of your favorite athletes of all time, it all comes out at the same time. The second one muscle relaxes every single thing that’s inside of you says, “BOYS! THE DOORS ARE OPENING, HEAD FOR THE EXITS!!!!!” 

And that’s what happened. I knew it was coming, I tried to stop it. I pinched my dick, to cut the pee stream off, as I frantically flailed at my belt buckle trying to undo it (I’m a through the fly guy). I clenched every single muscle in my body, from my toes to my ears, hoping that would shore up any gaps in the system. I begged with the good Lord above, come on man. Just let me outta this one and I’ll fuckin change. I promise I’ll change! I spun slowly, all the while thinking “Bro if you twitch, itch, cough, or sneeze you are gonna full on poop on the floor.”

Listen…

It doesn’t have to get more graphic than this, I think we all know where this has been going. 

I didn’t make the journey. I failed my quest. It wasn’t quite as bad as I thought it would be, but if we’re breaking this down to a binary situation of “did I poop in my pants or did I not poop in my pants” then it was a hard “I pooped my pants.” 

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Come to think of it, I don’t know what happened to those pants? I think they’re just sitting in my luggage still, so I’ve got that to go home to. Which is nice.

If you want to check out the episode here's the link.