Because journalism is dead, the journalists are becoming the stories. And so are the weathermen.

Something stormy was going down in Al Roker's undies two years ago, and now it's a headline. Ladies and gentlemen: Al Roker sharted himself in the White House.

Apparently a month after Roker got his stomach stapled, he was covering an event at the POTUS' crib when he felt a little rumbling. Roker assumed it was just gas and not an earthquake, but it was actually something a lot more traumatizing than anything that goes down in San Francisco.

The once-portly radar reader told Dateline, "I probably went off and ate something I wasn't supposed to. And as I'm walking to the press room, [I'm thinking] well, I gotta pass a little gas here. I'm walking by myself. Who's gonna know? Only a little something extra came out."

What was it? A gumball? A Cracker Jack prize?

Not quite. As he so eloquently put it, "I pooped my pants."

Roker then made a mad dash to the bathroom, where he dumped his dumped-in skivvies in the trash, freeing his nether regions to roam commando for the rest of the day. Thankfully, lightning didn't shart twice, or he would have been in real trouble.

So, how's your breakfast?