If I had a nickel for every time I soiled myself while watching a scary movie, I’d have by now a mansion on a hill. Presumably, with this windfall of moolah, I’d hire architects and carpenters to build me a state-of-the-art, high-tech home cinema with theater seats that can also serve as toilets at the drop of a hat. Moreover, I’d have all the Depends I would ever want. I swear, whenever a director goes for cheap shock tactics, I lose it. You know what I’m talking about, right? When the machete-wielding serial killer or blood-spitting monster leaps out of the darkness and the music goes from two to eleven, I turn into a virtual spigot. I can’t hide the fact either, because my daughters can usually smell the stench long before I do. I end up walking away sheepishly, holding my sweater, or whatever I can find, under my crotch. By the time I return to the movie, showered and changed, I usually have my kids pause the movie and give me a synopsis of what I missed. Honestly, it probably doesn’t help that I usually down a few burritos, tacos, and Nachos Supreme from Taco Bell just before and during the movie. Sometimes, just to break up the monotony, I order online takeout from a Mexican grill down the road that advertises “burritos as big as your butt.” I’m in a quandary. I love horror movies, but eating helps calm me and get me through most, but obviously not all, of the scary parts.
