(originally appeared in Shat Upon 'zine, roughly February 1996

Due to fiscal malignments in the Missoula school system, I attended kindergarten not in some bucolic schoolhouse, but in McGill hall at the University of Montana. It was something of an enlightening experience, seeing turban-clad students ambling past our white-bread playground, braless girls in velour take tops riding Huffy ten-speeds with pink tires. We would even occasionally spy future NBA reject Michael Ray Richardson walking in and out of the fieldhouse next door. Even Debbie Boone (a personal acquaintance of our teacher) came and sang "You Light Up My Life" in our classroom, no shit!

But the wee scholars of the class of '77 weren’t overly impressed by these goings-on, not with the Shrine Circus looming over us like sweat dripping from an elephant’s balls. Finally the white trash circus helpers started arriving to help prepare for the event. As you can well imagine, watching a circus as it’s being set up right next door to your playground was quite incomparable to lads and lasses of our age.

Quizzically, someone from the crew brought their son Emil with them, and for about a week he became the guest of our class. Emil was probably about seven at the time, and was of course the envy of everybody in my class, even Tracy Michaelson, who was in charge of the class rabbit. At recess, everyone crowded around Emil. It was strange seeing the class bullies Ricky Lindeman and Ty Russonnellio (who had no neck) totally rapt as Emil spun yarns of his exotic, itinerant lifestyle. My entire class received free tickets to the circus, compliments of the Shriners, and aside from swallowing Legos, this was all I could think about for the next few days.

Ah, but this would not be the night o' fantasia I had hoped for. That night at dinner, in a fit of unbridled anxiety, I piggishly inhaled five helpings of Mrs. Kaul's Nearly Notable Spaghetti, complementing each with garlic toast (the emetic properties of which I would soon observe).

Nearly blind from eating so much, I was hurried out the door by my dad and we were on our way. I was always real excited to tag along with Mr. Kaul, because he taught fifth grade and was a basketball coach and had huge biceps.

Unfortunately though, he liked to attire himself thusly: a polo shirt, usually of a pastel hue; another polo or print shirt on top of that for that collar contrast look; finally, the fetching sports jacket with Binaca in the pocket and the cowboy boots, of course. Presently I wonder why he didn't just wear a tank top with a tie and a jockstrap and paint his nose red.

Now at the fieldhouse, the circus raged on. Rumor had it that the guy who got shot out of a cannon was injured, and would not perform that night. But when I saw the girl ride a tightrope on a motorcycle, my physical discomfort resurfaced. I'm sure the heady bouquet of elephant turds contributed as well; I had to ask my dad to take me to the can, NOW! We circled the mezzanine en route to the bathroom, my dad dragging me so fast as to render me in-flight. 'Twas no use; I puked heartily all over a row of girls as they screamed in unison. The sheer torque of the vomiting expectoration caused me to blast a load of turd into my Underoos. In the bathroom, it was more of the same: throw up about a gallon of spaghetti, and then shit my drawers, over and over, and in diluvian proportions.

I don't even remember the ride home. My dad probably strapped me to the top of our Skylark with a garbage bag tied around me. At home, my mom and sister could only keep from fainting as my dad hosed me down in the bathtub. "Why don't you just take him to the car wash, dear," my mom chimed in. Nowadays, my dad describes this as the single most horrifying night of his life, the one night he actually considered trading me in for a hide-a-bed.

Never one to defile my family name only gingerly, I continued to lay cable in my pants every goddamned day at school for about a month afterward. I'm not sure if the teacher pretended noy to notice, but she never said anything. Each day, I'd get off the bus, walk home, and my mom would tug on the back of my TuffSkins to see whether I'd been incontinent that day. And each day her fear was affirmed. I distinctly remember the routine of having my pants checked, and then peeled off. There would be stool halfway down my legs from me repeatedly sitting down and forcing it into any available space.

When this horrific shit spree was officially declared over by both parents, I was rewarded with a dinner at Shakey's Pizza. To this day, by sister, whom I’d hoped was too young to remember, constantly delights relatives and prospective girlfriends with this tale of dereliction and dirndle.