Poopgate

                                              

December 4, 2025

When I woke up that morning, it was a day like any other. The winter sun was reflecting off of the fresh snow outside, I was big spooning my iPad, and my apartment was characteristically frigid. I slid out of bed to turn on my space heater, careful not to disturb my still charging iPad. As I moved to get back under the covers, a shot of adrenaline ran through me as I remembered that I had a flight to catch. I would be attending the final concert of the Eras Tour in Vancouver. My eyes darted to my phone screen. Phew, it was only eight am. My flight wasn’t until four pm that afternoon, so I had plenty of time to finish packing, tidy my apartment, say goodbye to my boyfriend and roommate, and make the notoriously trafficy journey to Pearson. 

Jack was in my room when I felt the first pang in my bowels. It was around noon and for a brief moment in time, the pain overcame my brain and it was all I could focus on. It was like Jack’s voice was a television that had been muted, everything went completely silent. I came back into my body shortly thereafter, the strange pain coming and going like a thief in the night. To this day, I can’t find the perfect words to describe the sensations I felt in that moment. I’d say it was like getting kicked in the balls on day two of your period, but that doesn’t do it justice. 

It didn’t matter though, the feeling was gone and I had an exciting day ahead of me. I chalked the pain up to pre-flight butterflies. 

I would be proven wrong.

December 3, 2024, Poopgate Eve

“I’m gonna get two hotdogs” I said excitedly, turning to my roommate Hannah on the subway platform. We were on our way to my first ever Raptors game. That morning, while standing in the kitchen, I had announced that I would be eating a hotdog at the game. It’s a silly thing to schedule a hotdog, but bear in mind that I was vegan for many years, and even prior to becoming vegan I was brought up in an almond house. That meant somewhere around 2010 I ate my final hotdog and didn’t even know it. 

But something had changed since that morning when I decided I would be breaking my fifteen year hotdog hiatus. I got hungry. Thus, I needed two hotdogs. Hannah, who would validate me if I committed arson, nodded her approval, “no yeah I’m gonna get two too.” We boarded our train giddily, unaware of the public flogging we were soon to receive for double dogging. 

Upon arrival, we surveyed the stadium for a hotdog stand that could service my fifteen year hankering. We were like hounds who had picked up the smell of truffles, worker bees reporting back to their queen. At long last, we found a hot dog stand. It was small, but mighty. 

Behind the cart were three gentlemen. For the sake of storytelling, I will give them names. From left to right, there was Portly, Dumpy, and Meaty. Judging by appearances alone, they loved their jobs. They were a visibly proud trio of hotdog cart owner/operators. You could tell they really loved their product. If you haven’t yet caught my drift, these three men were morbidly obese. Similarly to how pet owners come to come to resemble their pets, these men had collectively come to resemble a hot dog. As they worked the assembly line, standing behind the tiny cart, Portly and Meaty’s sides poked out from behind the cart, much as the tips of hotdogs extend beyond the bun.

Hannah and I held hands in line in anticipation like the two finalists of the Miss Universe pageant. We waited as other attendees received their dogs, each shuffle forward meaning I was that much closer to a dog of my own. When at last it was my turn, I stood up straight and said with the utmost confidence to Portly who was in charge of taking orders and payment, “I’ll have two hotdogs please.” He took my payment and told Dumpy. I thought it uneccessary to fill him in, as he was already smashed in between Portly and Meaty. I was sure he had overheard the order. Nonetheless, Dumpy got to work on the hot dogs. 

I was beginning to drool standing at the butt-end of the stand where Meaty would soon hand the dog off to me when Hannah shot me a weird glance. Portly had looked right over her and begun helping the person behind her, a white guy. My initial assumption was that I was witnessing blatant racism before my very eyes. Being that I feel protective of my roommate, I was pissed. I was about to step in, but then I realized we were in Scotiabank Arena which is owned by Maple Leaf Sports & Entertainment Ltd. and if I let it go on long enough, we might be able to sue for the big bucks. As I got lost in my grand plan, Hannah spoke up.

“Uhm, actually I was in line.” Hannah interjected.

“Oh, no sweetie, ya friend already ordered for you.” Replied Portly sweetly, nodding in my direction. I thank God that I didn’t act on my impulse moments before and yell, “ITS BECAUSE SHES BLACK ISNT IT.” Portly was not the racist beheamoth I had momentarily believed him to be. He was just a confused and passionate hotdog monger… a hotdonger?

This moment would come to define Hannah and I’s friendship. Time stood still. We both realized what Portly had assumed. There was just no way one girl could eat two hotdogs, so of course I was ordering for myself and my friend! 

Hannah could have done several things in that moment. She could have jumped ship on our two-dog pact that we’d made on the train to save her own image and said in a sweet, anorexic voice, “oh, no those are both for her, she’s reallllly hungry. I’ll take one hotdog please.” My gluttony would amplify her daintiness.

Hannah also could have taken a passive approach that would have forced us both into single-doggedness, politely nodding at Portly and saying, “oh, yeah I guess she did. My bad.” And then joining me at the other end to receive the second dog; a dog that was meant for me. I was sure this would be what she did, as would save us both from the big back allegations.

But Hannah did neither of those things. Instead, she said in a clear and confident tone, “no, actually. She was ordering those for herself. I’ll have two hot dogs as well.”

The earth started spinning again and I realized that I had been holding my breath. I exhaled a sigh of relief and approval for my friend’s loyalty to me and to the mission. She paid and joined me on the other side. I now held my two dogs in my hands, eager to find our seats so I could inhale them the way a dog with food scarcity issues would. 

A few minutes passed and we both wondered why Meaty had yet to hand over Hannah’s dogs. Seriously, it’s meat in hot water placed into a presliced bun. It should take all of five seconds, especially with the 200% overstaffing that was happening. Finally, Hannah said to Meaty, “Hi, is that my order?” 

Meaty tilted his head toward me, “ya friend is holding it.” 

My eyes darted around looking for a hidden camera that I was now positive was filming us. These three men were standing right next to each other but were apparently on different planets. There’s no way we aren’t being punked, I thought. Meaty was only a Dumpy-width away from Portly when Hannah made her awkward clarification. Clearly he had not been listening. 

It’s important to mention that Portly and Meaty both had a way of talking that carried over the sounds coming from within the arena. By this point, the mob that had formed to buy hotdogs was listening intently to the tale of the girls who dared to order two hot dogs. Everyone seemed to lean in as the saga continued. Would we remain steadfast, or succumb to the societal pressure placed on young women to never eat more than one hot dog?

Hannah powered through. “No, she ordered two. Those are mine.” Hannah said pointing through the glass partition at two perfect dogs awaiting collection. 

“Portly, you ain’t tell me they BOTH got TWO hotdogs, how was I ‘pose ta know?” Meaty said, handing Hannah her rightful dogs and publicly shaming us simultaneously. Contrary to what I had previously believed, proximity did not equate to a good flow of communication. The results were loud and very embarrassing for patrons, i.e me and Hannah. It’s a unique experience to be fat shamed by fat people. I can say without doubt that they’d each had more than two hotdogs that day.

Finding our spot in the arena, we were silent for the entire twenty four seconds it took for us to eat the hotdogs we had survived a modern-day public stoning for. I don’t remember the game. I don’t remember who won, I don’t even remember who we were playing. I remember that the hot dogs tasted just like they did in the early aughts, and that Grady Dick was wearing a lovely sweater (he was out with an injury). 

“So good.” I said.

“So good.” Said Hannah.

Things would not remain so good.

Back To December 4, 2025

At around one o’clock, I booked an Uber to take me to the airport. Toronto is the best city in the world to order an uber because without fail, they arrive in less than two minutes. That two minutes gave me just enough time to delegate the task of carrying my bags down the stairs to Jack, say goodbye to Hannah, and get my shoes on. My phone dinged, my uber saying “I’ve arrived.” He was parked across the street so I looked both ways and crossed. The moment my fingers touched the door handle, the dreadful feeling returned, this time in fuller force. For a moment I contemplated asking the uber to wait while I ran back inside, but I didn’t know how long I would be and also didn’t want to risk getting to the airport late. 

I settled into the back seat, and the feeling dissipated. I put my AirPods in and thanked my body for cooling it on the bowel quakes. My Uber was tricked out with every amenity you could think of velcroed to the back of the passenger seat. Had the sniffles? There was tissue. Got a cut? Bandaids. Craving something sweet? How about a candy? Feeling like doing some light singing? Bluetooth karaoke mic that connected to the car’s speakers through Apple CarPlay. It was an awesome Uber. Just, not for me. What I needed to be velcroed to the back of the seat was a toilet. 

The Gardiner expressway is famous for being congested. In fact, it ranks seventh globally for worst traffic in the world. So imagine the sheer terror of having to manually hold your butthole shut while sitting in some of the world’s worst traffic. The seismic waves of literal shit radiated throughout my body and I broke out in sweats each time. It was like labor contractions, arriving in a timed pattern. When the pain passed, I would take the time to make a game plan. 

Plan A was to hold it, obviously. Plan B was to get out of the car on the high way and expose myself to drivers and passengers in the most horrific way possible. This was the plan if we were bumper to bumper with no sign of moving anytime soon. Plan C was to shit my pants in a poor stranger’s car that had been nicely decorated and soak whatever the cleaning fee is for pooping in an Uber. Plan B and C had their own unique downsides, and no upsides. 

When the pains would return, I would do breath work. Ten second inhale. Hold five seconds. Ten second exhale. Repeat. Breathwork, if you’re reading this, I want to publicly apologize in writing to you right now for ever shitting on you in the past. You aren’t just some woo woo bullshit. You saved me from $200 in cleaning fees and a world of embarrassment. 

After what felt like a twelve hour Uber ride, we arrived at the terminal. “Thankyousomuchbye” I said to my Uber driver as he helped get my suitcase out of the trunk. I shuffled into the airport as fast as I could without separating my thighs or lifting my feet off of the ground. The automatic doors slid open and I searched frantically for the nearest bathroom. 

I laid eyes on a bathroom and charged it (as much as one can without separating your legs or lifting your feet).  

Here’s the thing about the bathroom at the entrance of the airport. Nobody ever uses them. Normally, you check in, check your bag, go through security and find your gate. Then and only then do you go to the bathroom. That is, unless you are perilously close to losing control of your sphincter. Evidently, everyone that had used this bathroom had experienced a similar ride to the airport as I had.

There were three stalls. The first was backed up and had toilet paper sitting in a mound in the bowl. The second one was occupied. The third had seen war; water was spilling over the top and I realized the entire floor, including where I standing, was covered in toilet water overflow. But thanks to my platform Uggs I was kept above of the flood zone #ad. 

I was in between surges of pain in my stomach and looked at my choices in toilets. “I’m not doing this shit,” I thought, turning to leave. Just then the pain flooded back into my body and I made the snap decision to go into the first stall. In stall two, the occupant gave that toilet a run for its money. I don’t know who was next to me, but we are bonded forever by this experience. I hope that one day, I’ll be in a crowded bar, telling a stranger this story when a beautiful girl overhears me and interrupts. “You blew up a toilet in Pearson Airport on December 4th 2025? Me too.” And then we will leave together to a quieter bar with better drinks and share our experiences from that fateful day. While sharing our life stories we will find out we are actually twins who were separated at birth. 

I fought hard in that stall. I won’t go into detail, but I haven’t stopped thinking or talking about this experience for six months and now I’m writing an essay on it, so clearly what happened in there has impacted me deeply. I don’t know what I was thinking or who I was kidding when I flushed. the toilet was clearly clogged when I entered. It sputtered and then the contents of the bowl began to rise. I made a run for it and felt like I was in an action movie where the heroes are running out of a building in slow motion when suddenly, it explodes. 

I will never eat a hotdog ever again. Until I do.

                                                                Xoxo,

                                                                            Psychotic Perfect