A Blast From The Past: That Time I Hid in the Shitter By Peter Snyder

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What’s up guys. You bored? So am I. If I am being honest, I didn’t think this level of boredom even existed. Before writing this, I was looking outside my window to see if I could count how many times a raindrop bounced off the macadam outside as opposed to the drops that fell limp dick. Pathetic, I know. No sports, no girls, nothing. Just me, myself, my annoying ass dog and I. To pass the time, I thought it would be fun for me to tell a story from my childhood. This story is 100% real and looking back on it, I can’t believe it even happened. I now present to you, that time I hid in the shitter to avoid getting domed by a 90 MPH heater.

It was the spring of 2010. 10-year-old Pete has the ego of a god as he was just called up to the “Bigs” at Nottingham Little League. As I’ve mentioned before in previous blogs, playing at the big league level for my little league was a big deal and when you got called up to play, your dick instantly grew 3 inches. As the season began, I felt as if I could do no wrong. I was starting at the hot corner, had girls in the stands to watch my games, and was drilling fastballs like you could not believe. I was the A-Rod of little league and my party was just getting started.

Around mid-way through the season, rumours started to circulate that one of the pitchers in the league had major control issues. I’m talking, one time he gave a kid a concussion control issues. It is also worth mentioning that this kid was about 6’4 and was a good 10 inches taller than everyone else in the league.

The time comes where my team is slated to play his and sure enough, bigfoot is scheduled to get the start. Now I don’t wanna say I was scared coming into the game, but I certainly wasn’t comfortable. The game begins and I am set to bat 7th in the lineup (major disrespect from my coach hitting me that low, but I guess you gotta earn your stripes as a rookie.) As our leadoff hitter dug into the box, I remember sitting on the top dugout step looking as cool as can be. Eye black on, sunflower seeds being chewed, the whole 9 yards. Little did I know, one pitch would change everything.

The first pitch of the game is thrown and I shit you not, goes directly off our leadoff hitters head. As my teammate rolled around on the dirt in complete hysteria, I begin to feel a knot in my stomach. And no, this knot is not from the chili I ate the night before, but rather out of utter and complete fear. I was too young to die and had my entire life to live ahead of me.

I told my coach I had to use the bathroom and made a B line to the nearest shitter. Now I didn’t have to poop, but finding shelter at that point was a must. As I made my way into the disgusting bathroom stall, I locked the door, pulled up my legs, and prayed. Prayed that somehow, someway, I wouldn’t have to face bigfoot. I thought to myself, “maybe if I pray hard enough, a giant thunderstorm will come and cancel the game or an asteroid will appear out of nowhere and knock out the opposing pitcher. I regret to inform you all, that my prayers were not answered.

As more time passed, I can only assume that my coach began to wonder as to where the hell I was. After about 25 minutes of hiding in the shitter, I hear a loud knock on the bathroom stall. It is my father. Much to his chagrin, he told me that I had to get out of the bathroom because I was in the hole. I told him that my hole was on fire so it would have to wait. The next part is a little blurry but the next thing I know I am standing in the on-deck circle, literally shitting my pants.

As you can probably guess, the batter before me got nailed in the ribs by a 109 MPH fastball. It was at this point in which I was fully convinced that I was going to die. “It was a good ten years Pete,” I thought to myself. As I whimpered in the box, you could see my legs shake a mile a minute. I clenched my bat as tight as I could, stood back in the box as much as humanly possible and once again, prayed. This time, however, my prayers were answered.

Before the first pitch was thrown, time had been granted. I looked to my right and saw a big foot’s manager make his way to the mound. I then let go what may have been the biggest sigh of relief of all time. The big lefty had been taken out of the game and I was going to get to live to see another day.

I then faced a scrawny southpaw and did what only I know how to do. Took him DEEP. Moral of the story here? Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.

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