I Don’t Like Xaviers

The name “Xavier” has been ruined for me.

When I was in kindergarten there was this twat rocket named Xavier. I really disliked Xavier because he was filthy and I’m pretty sure he was a paint huffer at the ripe age of five because that kid was in Lala Land. It’s pretty bad when I say someone has gone off the deep end because I’m pretty kooky.

Anyway, there was a particular day when Xavier had a cloud of shit vapor about him. The kid was busting ass about every three minutes. Since kindergartners aren’t socially adept, most of us were straight up like, “XAVIER STINKS! EW! NO! GROSS!” so my teacher, sweet Miss Andrews, went up to Xavier, gagged, and asked, “Sweetie, are you okay?”

“I gotta go dookie,” whined Xavier while shifting from foot to foot. I bet he was clenching his ass cheeks from an onslaught of shit. Damn, that kid stunk.

“Xavier, we say ‘I have to use the restroom,’ okay?”

“Yeah… I gotta go dookie.” Miss Andrews just gave up and ushered him into the restroom. This school (Hollie Parsons Elementary School in Copperas Cove, Texas, look it up) had a single bathroom within each kindergarten class so no child would piss his or her pants on the walk to a stall. Unfortunately, Xavier was wearing overalls and had not yet mastered the intricacies of the overall buckle-clip-thingy.

There was a loud shriek and then something that sounded like a camel getting its balls kicked. Miss Andrews flung open the bathroom door and there stood Xavier, crying his eyes out and doing the truffle shuffle. We all stood there looking to see what was wrong with the kid. Had he smashed his head on the sink? Had he impaled himself on the coat hook? And then a thick perfume of shit stank hit everyone crowded around little Xavier, that fuck.

Everyone hit the deck. I’m sure someone screamed while another began to sob. “Oh sweet Jesus,” I muffled. I didn’t even know who Jesus was.

While most children don’t understand social norms, most understand that SHITTING YOURSELF is pretty damned bad and shameful. Xavier cried harder, huffing and blowing snot bubbles in a fit of embarrassment and rage. He reached down to his ankle and, sweet Jesus, he picked up a log of shit that had sidled down his trouser leg. I experienced true fear. It’s one thing to have someone say “I’m gonna whoop your ass”; it’s quite another to have someone hold a handful of poop while he’s under extreme duress. I thought he was gonna fling it at us.

Instead little Xavier bellowed a loud battle cry too deep for his undropped balls, ran at the wall, and smeared a ten foot trail of dookie around the tiled interior of the bathroom. “GET IT OOOOOOFFFFFFFFFF!” He crumpled to the ground undoubtedly smothering the poo into his clothes and skin. I don’t remember what happened after that. My eyes had been blinded by the shit-induced veil of tears. Sweet Miss Andrews probably scooped him off the ground and called his parents. Oh god, yuck. We had to use the bathroom in the classroom next door for a few days until ours had been sanitized. It still smelled like Xavier’s ass… or maybe my mind was playing tricks on me.

Anyway, this is just a story of what I think about whenever I meet a dude named Xavier, that poopy pantsed shit flinger.

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