Halleluuuuiaaaa... And Now, Yet Another Reading from the Book of Emesis.

Given a choice from which to expel disease-induced liquids, I will always opt for the South Side. Yes, that's right. I'd rather straddle the toilet when I ail than to hug it. The rest of the Prego clan seems to prefer the Northtowns. Actually, the Fletchmaster tends to operate in both.

Monday afternoon, Mrs. P suggests I take the boys to "Smokin' Joe's Family Fun Centre" in Niagara Falls. I know. Smokin' Joe's name is synonymous with wholesome entertainment, but it's been hovering around zero˚ here in W.N.Y. and the goddamned libraries close early.

Anyway, about two blocks from the fun centre, The Fletch anounces that he has to go pee.

Prego: We're almost there Fletch.
Fletchmonster: I gotta go peeeeee... (whimpers, kicking the back of my seat.)
Prego: Hold on, buddy. Let me just park.
Fletchmonster: Waaaahhhh.

I park the car and hurriedly go to the Fletch's door.

Fletchmonster: I pooed my pants.

Great.

The trusty little bastard hadn't done that in about a year, so I was a little unprepared. As I walked him to the door I checked his drawers. Sure enough. Feces. I thought about what I'd do when I got inside. If it was manageable, I'd just wipe him off, throw the soiled underwear in the trash and let him have his fun.

Smokin' Joe's door was locked.

I turned the Fletch around, unzipped his pants and let him take a whiz in the entrance before herding him and his brother back to the car.

O-Dog: We're not going in?
Prego: It's closed.
O-Dog: Well, why don't we go somewhere else?
Prego: Because he sh*t his pants!

Ordinarily, I wouldn't use a "Daddy word" of this magnitude with him, but the situation made me a little testy.

The drive home was a bit aromatic to say the least. The O-Dog would open his window to freshen things up a bit. It filled the car with an Arctic blast, but I wasn't going to argue with him. Fletchmonster fell asleep in his saturated garments.

When we got home, I rushed the Fletch to the bathtub. He insisted on taking off his own clothes, but given the gravity of the situation, I kept him from doing so. He wrestled a bit, but once he saw both his legs covered in dooke, he relented. I cleaned him up, fed the boys and plopped them down with the O-Dog to watch Scooby Doo and the Witch's Ghost.

Fast forward 1 hr. and 20 min.

"All right, guys. It's bedtime."

At this point they both come upstairs. I look up from my laptop to see the O-Dog in the doorway with a steady stream of vomit coming from his mouth.

"Go to the toilet! Go to the TOILET!"

Instead, he just stood there as more came out.

I tiptoed around his puddle and nudged him into the bathroom, where he continued everywhere but the basin. "Great. Another cleaning project," I thought as I undressed the O-Dog for a bath.

From the hallway, I could hear, "Daddy, I have to go pee."

"Hold on, Fletch. Give me a minute." I said this as I thought about the last time he said that. I left the O-Dog to his own devices and went to find his brother. As I dropped Fletch's pants at the toilet I noticed it was too late. I threw them into the tub and began to clean the carpet.

Something funny about half-digested hot dogs... They tend to break into little pieces, much like mercury does (except that it doesn't rejoin back together). I pulled out the vaccuum cleaner to get the big chunks before I started scrubbing the rest of it.

(Dials Telephone)

Mrs. P: Hello?
Prego: Uh, what gets vomit out or carpeting?
Mrs. P: Oh, no. The Fletch?
Prego: No. He sh*t himself earlier. The O-Dog.
Mrs. P: I don't feel so great myself.

I finished damage control and put the boys to bed. I was laying in bed myself, when Mrs. P arrives home from work.

Mrs. P: I gotta go (fooommmphff) to the bathroom.

I dozed off to an alternating cacophany of retches and flushes, throwing in the occasional, half-hearted "Are you okay, honey?" before I zzzzzzz... zzzzzzzz....



The next morning I awoke feeling a little achy myself.

"This house smells like death," I remarked to my wife. "I narrowed it down to the source. The vaccuum cleaner."

"You used it to clean the puke? You idiot! That's not a wet-vac!"

"I just used it to get the chunky stuff up. It kept breaking up into tinier pieces..."

"All right! ALL RIGHT!" she cried. It was evident she wasn't 100% yet. I went to work, despite feeling cruddy myself. About half-way through the day and several trips to the toilet later, I called it an afternoon and went home to recoup.

I did stop at the pharmacy for some Carpet Fresh™, though. And a couple rolls of Cottonelle®.