Speaking of farting and douchebags -

Fat Weekly (a douche I dated for a little over a year and broke up with last summer) shat his pants on our first date. That's right.

Here I was, terrified, having been set up with a guy that I'd reboundingly hit on six months prior and I'm in the Holiday Bar in the Village, my only company a gin and tonic and a surly bartender, when I get the call:

"Hey, it's Fat."
"Hey, Fat. What's up?"
"I'm running late. I had a sushi incident."
"Oh, okay. Cool. I'll see you later."
"Yeah."

During the exceptionally awkward first date, he admitted that he didn't shower on a daily basis. Neither did his roommate, an overaffectionate Russian, who blew him regularly (That's how we say goodnight, Kath! Why do you have to be so friggin' jealous?).

About three months later, he told me. He had nearly beaten me to the bar when he felt a little gassy. Deciding to push the gas out, he instead shat his pants. He then hightailed it back to work in Union Square, tossed his underwear and cleaned himself up as best as possible.

Wow, I sure know how to pick em.

I should move. To Maine, perhaps.