There are not many things that are worse than crapping your pants. There are not many things worse than a run-in with the law. Put the two together and it makes the perfect answer for:
What is the worst way to get arrested?
Picture the scene, it is the night after your weekly takeaway. Last night you were feeling mildly exotic and chose to order from A Touch Of Spice, the local curry house. It is 9pm, more than 24 hours since you ingested the slightly underwhelming lamb dopiaza.
You were aware of a warm knotting in the pit of your stomach all day but decided to risk popping down the pub any way. You decline a beer and opt for a cola in the hope it will kill the poo party that is happening inside you.
You sit with your mates at the bar, sipping gently at the cola in the hope that it won’t shock your stomach into doing something drastic. Little to your knowledge the chilled bubbles in the cola have reacted with the ricey mess that has been sitting heavy inside you all day. Suddenly you are very aware of your asshole. You know the toilets in this pub are gross and there is not way you are going to sit in there whilst you allow molten butt-lava to pour out of you.
Grabbing your coat you explain, very briefly, why you have to leave. Your mates laugh, call you names but are acceptant of what is about to happen. You break into a light jog on the way to your car, being careful not to make any rash movements, keys in hand discreetly hammering the central locking button. As you speed off out of the car park a wave of calm washes over you, you are in a safe place now, if you do have an accident no one will ever need to find out. But that still doesn’t mean you want to crap your pants.
On your journey, you break into a hot sweat and you become a little panicky, if you don’t get back soon you are sure to fill your undies. You step on the accelerator just a little harder and as you do, blue lights fills your car. It is the police. You are fucked.
The officer gets out of his patrol car and saunters towards you, as you open your window he slowly asks if you have had any thing to drink. At this point you are visibly distressed, there’s a strange look on your face and you’re dripping with sweat. The police officer knows something is up and get you out the car. As you fidget around trying to squeeze your cheeks together so tightly that nothing could seep out, you explain why you were speeding and plead with the officer to follow you back just so you can relieve yourself. He laughs, then explains how he is going to breathalyser you. As he turns and walks towards his vehicle, it happens. The decadent brown sludge is released. Instantly you can smell it and when the officer arrives back, so can he.
Like any power crazed police officer he handcuffs you and puts you in the back of his car, thinking that this was all an elaborate stunt, little does he know the ass-gravy in your pants has seeped through into the fibres of his car seat forever tainting the vehicle, but there is no winner here.
Words by Robert Hiscock