Right after grad school, I briefly tried a number of professions before settling as a publisher's rep and writer full-time. One very interesting and hectic six-month stint in the early '80's saw me producing a syndicated Southern college football highlights show on a shoestring budget. My crew consisted of myself and my loyal cameraman, Billy; and the two of us went around the South covering a different game every weekend, and then rushing back to the studio in New Orleans like bats outta hell to edit the highlights.

Billy was a trip, a speed demon and a half. No drug reference intended here -- he just did everything faster than everybody else. He talked fast, drove fast, ate fast and shit fast. He and his live-in girlfriend, Candace, came to this TV gig from radio. That is to say, he was a long-haired disc jockey a la Dr. Johnny Fever from WKRP In Cincinnati; she was an experienced traffic person (meaning she handled the placement and production of commercials for the station). WKRP, in fact, was their favorite program at the time, and she modeled herself after Loni Anderson's sexy secretary character, Jennifer.

In the sports broadcast business, a significant degree of camaraderie with one's cameraman is necessary. After all, he's the guy who frames all the shots, and pays attention to your good side while doing so. Billy and I didn't spend a whole lot of time talking about dumping or peeing, but when we had to go, we went -- sometimes in each other's presence. Billy and I traveled around like a couple of media racehorses, bunking together at Holiday Inns, eating together in restaurants, and now and then finding ourselves together in emergency shitting situations, which we handled as best we could. Since we were both Shameless, we never had a problem announcing our needs; and for us, holding anything in was out of the question. A fairly typical road trip consisted of at least one phrase to the effect of, "Next service station that looks fairly decent, pull in. I gotta go."

One particular incident of this period of my life functions for me as a snapshot of Shameless Shitting. We were racing back to the studio from a game in Auburn, and Billy was speeding along the interstate way the hell over the limit. I asked him why he was going ninety instead of his usual eighty. "I don't feel so hot," was his reply.

I asked him what was wrong, and he said, "I think that press box food disagreed with me this afternoon. I'm not sure what's going on, but I feel like I may have to go at both ends." I then asked him if he wanted me to drive, but he said no. He always wanted to be at the wheel.

I fully appreciated his predicament. Depending upon the school and the stadium, press box food could be either a treat or god-awful; however, since I wasn't a big hamburger or hot dog guy, I hadn't eaten much of it. But Billy had, and he was obviously going to pay the price.

Then the dam burst. Billy slowed down and pulled over to the side of the interstate. With little decorum, he opened the door, hung his head out, and barfed all over the shoulder. I again asked him if he wanted me to drive, but he insisted on continuing to hug the wheel. (Ha! I suppose that phrase has a double meaning in his case.)

The crisis was far from over. Billy explained to me that he now thought he might have to handle a storm from the sewer drain, or something to that effect. At the next exit, he turned into a brightly lit, state-of-the-art service station, parked the car, and headed straight to the men's room. I was worried about him, and also I had to pee, so we entered the facility together.

There were two urinals and a crapper with a partition but no door. We had used locker room facilities (both open and closed) together during our work before, so this was no problem for us. Billy ripped down his pants and started snapping, crackling and popping while I drained my bladder. It sounded pretty desperate; I kept thinking that he must have gotten hold of an undercooked burger or something that had sat out in the press box too long. At one point during his defecation dissertation, he jokingly glanced my way and said, "It's not as bad as it sounds. I'm really just making room for some decent food down the road."

Amazingly, the odor wasn't too bad, and Billy was none the worse for wear after his ordeal. We were laughing and joking about the press box meal from hell all the way out to the car. Billy continued to insist on driving, although this time at a mere seventy-five, now that his Indianapolis 500 incentive of a desperation dump had been taken out of the equation.

Billy and I were a good team for the short time we produced that show together. And being Shameless Shitters was a big plus, because we didn't need any extra tension or an uptight element in our relationship, considering the hectic demands of our jobs. To me, this incident is the true essence of Shameless Shitting; I relate it to show that Shamelessness need not be anything more than taking life's twists and turns without making them in to even more of a challenge.

Last I heard, Billy and Candace were living in Virginia, and are probably watching reruns of WKRP. I'd like to think he remembers our professional association as fondly as I do. Maybe he's even learned how to slow down.

-- The Big Wiper