Day 610 - Would You Like Your Poop Caffeinated or Not?

I am not a very religious person, but ever since the kids were born and I entered my sleep-deprived state of being, I have found salvation in a church. And that church is called Starbucks. Almost every morning on my way to work, my faith sends me to the House of Starbucks where I pay my tithe to the Green Mermaid-like Goddess On My Insulated Cup. In return, I drink the Liquid of the Gods (Quad split-shot grande in a venti cup, one pump mocha, one pump cinnamon dolce, non fat, with whip and mocha drizzle, americano misto) which sends me into a state of peace and tranquility. In Starbucks, We Trust.

Honestly, I have never drank so much coffee in my life until the kids were born. Throughout college, I was not a coffee drinker; I preferred absinthe. Once I started to work, I would drink the occasional cup. And up until 20 months ago, I would drink maybe a cup a day; sometimes I would drink nothing. But once the kids were pulled out of Lisa's gut, a cup of coffee became my all-in-one survival kit.

A few times a week on the way to work, I will stop by my local Starbucks to pick up a cup of coffee and the occasional reduced fat baked good. But today I felt like I could get away with a chocolate croissant. After all, I was wearing an untucked shirt and Lisa's pregnancy jeans (They're super comfortable!).

I always believed eating in the car is just as dangerous as using a cell phone, yet you can only get a ticket for one of them -- unless you're eating something unusual like sizzling fajitas or a human head. I have three safety rules to drinking and eating in the car: 1) Use your hands, not your eyes. 2) Don't miss your mouth. 3) It's okay to be messy. Strangely enough, these are also my three safety rules in bed.

But as I was eating my chocolate croissant in the car, I broke all three rules. When I was taking a bite of the croissant, I felt a small piece of it fall right on my lap. More specifically, my crotch. I tried to use my hand to find the small piece, but I couldn't find anything between my legs (NOTE: Please submit all small penis jokes at a later time.). I quickly looked down and found a quarter-sized piece of chocolate on my pants. When I removed it, I looked down again and found a large, brown stain. Great! It looked like I pooped through my penis.

I grabbed a napkin and tried to clean my pants. Yet the more I cleaned, the worse it looked. What might've been a fairly inconspicuous spot transformed into a stain of embarrassing proportion. I wasn't too sure what I was going to do at work, but I noticed when I got out of the car my shirt covered my crotch fairly well. Besides that, who would have enough nerve to ask me whether or not I pooped on myself?

This incident is not going to stop me from getting my coffee and baked good in the morning, but I will be more careful when eating something that could possibly look like poop on my crotch. And although nobody at work seemed to notice a brown stain on my crotch, it looks like next week's episode is about a Chinese man who has his girlfriend defecate on his lap. Whew! I'm Japanese! Close call!