As the country’s leading cotillion instructor, travelling from town to town to teach the nation’s thirteen-year-olds tradition, respect, manners, and decency, I pride myself on my ability to properly pack the correct outfits for every occasion, to plan ahead and ensure all my sartorial needs are met. Any amateur can say a three-day trip requires three outfits, but a mature and experienced professional like myself anticipates unplanned scenarios and packs accordingly. The first event of this weekend’s trip begins at 8 o’clock Friday evening, and I wisely use the afternoon to exercise in the hotel gym, which requires a shower and change of clothes that hadn’t been on my initial itinerary, but for which I’ve prepared. That’s change of clothes number one. After concluding my welcome speech and meeting the parents of this weekend’s students, I retire to my hotel room and desire a fresh change of clothes to settle in for bed. Change number two. In the morning I enjoy the hotel’s hot breakfast — runny scrambled eggs — and while leading the afternoon’s introductory waltz class I pivot too quickly and squeeze a small portion of wet feces into my underwear. I excuse myself from the conference room for my third change. Next is the formal dining lesson, where I instruct the shy girls and talkative boys on which utensils to use for particular dishes, and as I lean over one boy, a tight squirt of diarrhea slaps the back of my pants, and I politely excuse myself for change number four. That evening in my room, it’s a shower and fresh underwear for bed — five — which I immediately ruin, over-exerting myself passing gas while reading Jane Eyre, piss-thin diarrhea soaking layer after layer of fabric until I have to flip the mattress myself to hide the deepest stain. That’s six. Sunday morning begins with a foxtrot lesson and on step two I’ve swung my hip too hard, hurling a handful of mushy stool into my underwear like a side-arm fastball. Seven. I return from the restroom, demonstrating how to stand up straight with my shoulders back like a proper gentleman, and the boys say I’ve been in the restroom a lot, and they’ve noticed a sour smell around me, like root beer mixed with vinegar. I tell them it’s unsophisticated to say such things, and we begin the afternoon’s lesson on polite greetings, starting with a firm handshake. I hold my hand out, fingers straight, and Trevor, the tallest boy, asks why my fingertips are brown and rancid. I excuse myself to wash them and change my briefs, which hammock a six-inch cigar I have no recollection of excreting. That’s eight. I rush back, needing to make up for the time we’ve wasted, and each step brings a ripe squeeze of boiling-hot diarrhea into my underwear. The girls look away but the boys stare at me, telling me I’m nasty. I insist that’s no way to speak to a refined man of honor, but before I can teach them to say, “How do you do, ma’am?” the boys tackle me, the surprise igniting two quick shots of wet duke straight down the backs of each leg. They pin me down and pull off my pants and my underwear, then Trevor comes at me with towels from the hotel pool, and they wipe me, four boys pulling apart my cheeks while Trevor sops up the mess. The girls fan their faces, console each other as I scream and wail and writhe, flipping over to kick at the boys, my penis flopping left and right. I land no kicks, but the effort shakes loose three hard, putrid turds clean onto the carpet, and the boys get my legs and carry me out into the dark, cold parking lot and throw me behind the triple-bagged garbage sacks of my spoiled underwear. I stand there, nude from the waist down, watching the boys return to the banquet and greet the girls with gentility and respect. Through the hotel’s windows I see the students dance beautifully together under the dreamy chandelier light. For a moment I’m in heaven. But a raccoon’s claw piercing my penis tip brings me back to earth, reminding me it’s time for a new outfit. I unlock my trunk and find two remaining pairs of underwear and put one on — number nine. Feeling fresh and clean and elegant, I drive to the airport and unload burbling torrents of uncontrollable scat stew all down my ass and legs while pushing 80 on the highway. But it’s all part of the plan, as pair number ten awaits. I roll to a gentle stop in the parking deck and slosh my custom-cobbled dress shoes from the pool of molten crap that’s drowned the pedals. With a proper smile I return the rental car, then waltz towards the airport restroom for a few more queasy gushes of rotten muck and my final change of clothes, satisfied with my perfect packing, another genteel and refined cotillion class complete.
Perfect Packing
