I awoke one summer morn, my alarm clock rousing my weary self from peaceful slumber. Outside the dark twilight of a new dawn was encroaching, and I arose from bed like a sleeping giant. My stomach rumbled -- it was hungry.

Had I eaten the night before, this whole terrible episode could have been prevented. But dinner had escaped my capable hands, eluding my grasp for a turn that would inevitably lead to unthinkable reproach. As my sleep-worn eyes gained focus, a horror was revealed to me by my once-dependable alarm clock: I was late for work.

It was not just any day to be late, however, as my company's annual "all hands meeting" was to occur on this very morning. My boss would be attending, and with her the gaze of a thousand burning souls projected toward my being if I was late. Cursing time, I quickly showered and threw on my clothes in a flurry. I had precisely fifteen minutes to make it into work. My mind convinced my bowels this was to happen, despite my twining innards knowing it took forty-five minutes for me to traverse the many highways required to reach my destination. I breathed deeply, harnessing my focus to a point and grabbing my keys. Today I would not be sick.

If you have read my previous story, The Ass that Stole Christmas, your knowledge of my condition (IBS) is versed but not scholarly. Situations which have provoked my demon dribbler to rear its unsaintly head have been both large and small. Even the tiniest pinprick of stress can cause a myriad of ass mucus to flood the gates, igniting a thousand acidic equines to stampede to the finish. Thankfully, I thought, I had nothing to eat the night before; I was relieved by my good fortune.

But temptation is a mistress that perverses the strongest of wills, and weak was I after my stomach explained the situation to be dire. Fearing torture at the hands of time gone without sustenance, I decided to make a brief stop at non other than Tom's Donut Shop.

Tom was a small Asian fellow, middle-aged and over worked. His wife barked at him in a language derived from English and his native tongue; his manner was beaten and his eyes told a story of an American dream long lost. Whatever hope with which he came to this country was long forgotten; his wife was the unbearable crutch he could not overcome to walk on his own. Being empathetic -- a terrible trait for someone who is stricken with the foulest of natures during times of stress -- this display kickstarted my bowels. The grumble monster was waking, its factory of twisted elves beginning the mornings orders.

"What do you want?" said Tom, heavy on the accent, with less appreciation for articulation.

"Two sprinkles, one plain, and six donut holes," I said with the enthusiasm of passing a kidney stone through my tear ducts. Tom could sense something was wrong. I was different. My usual pep had been destroyed by an unknown assailant. Tom furrowed his brows as if completing a task requiring delicate artistry and delivered the donuts in a plain white bag. It was soaked through with grease within those sharp fifteen seconds of relocation, but I was too stricken with greed to notice.

Now, with only seven minutes remaining, my sense of the rational overwhelmed me. I was going to be late no matter what. My mind toyed with the idea of calling in sick, as it had so many times before, but I was steadfast in my desire to show up. I opened the now-congealed donut bag and began to feast. I began with the sprinkles, my favorite, almost devouring the doughy succubus in three bites. My lust continued as each donut made love to my taste buds and then settled in post-glow delight at the pit of my stomach. For the first time that morning I felt a strange calm washing my soul of its turmoil. It was the eye of the hurricane soon to follow.

I proceeded to drive, swerving between cars in the narrow streets of my home city while jockeying for position at the lights. Each light I passed seem to cause a little gas in my gut to gain in mass and hardiness. "THE DONUTS!" my mind screamed. Betrayers of sanctity! To think I had trusted them to wallow in my bile, their noxious bodies fermenting like bloated corpses left long ago in a river to rot. My brown-eyed buccaneer heaved a great sigh, then clamped like a potato chip clip keeping a bag shut. I was still thirty minutes away from my salvation, and too far from my residence to turn back now. There was only one thing to do: begin the exhale.

Expertly tensing my anus, I gritted my teeth and scrunched my shoulders, releasing a tiny eep of gas. It sputtered and squeaked, a single horn symphony of disgusting, vile ass. It was not wet; and furthermore, the feeling had subsided. I felt a bit better and continued my trek with renewed vigor.

I arrived at my work with the utmost confidence that I could sit through my hour meeting and then proceed directly to the bathroom afterwards. I quickly ran to the meeting at the back of my office, sheepishly opening the door. A hundred eyes of co-workers and adversaries were on me as I slinked into an open chair.

Attention diverted back to the presenter. Phew. Uh-oh. The elves were ready to ship their first product. Experimental in design, it was an unstable abomination of gas and solids. Damn their research labs -- donuts are not meant to be altered by such science. Especially elf science!

I squirmed in my chair, holding my cheeks together. Deep inside my anus, I could feel the burning fire glow, its embers hopping in morbid unison to protest its incarceration. Like an enormous hammer lifting to great heights than dropping with unparalleled force, the horde of brownies was ready to be birthed on to my unwilling partner, the chair. Should I...? The thought raced through my brain, igniting primal fears in man to which previously only Neanderthals could relate. Should I stand up and leave? Should I release some gas? Should I shit on the chair? Only one of these answers was socially appropriate, and I had little time. Deciding on using the restroom, I ran out of the meeting with all eyes now transfixed on my flailing arms and legs. There is only one event that requires that type of sprint: a Diatholon. Godspeed, they must have thought. Godspeed.

Racing to the bathroom door, my hands gripped the cold, uncaring steel of the handle with the strength of a gorilla. I flung it open to find two of the three stalls were taken. Timid turder or not, I was about to make my debut. Welcome me brothers, I am about to indulge all but one of your senses in this spectacle of grief. Thankfully, the biggest stall (the handicapped one) was open for the taking.

Running inside, I locked the door and pulled down my pants as fast as I could; then, as I bent to unload myself into the toilet, the unthinkable happened. My sphincter, as if a villain hanging on a cliff in an action movie too defiant to be apprehended by the authorities, let go. SPLOOSH went the diarrhea. SPLATTER went the floor. Then there was silence.

I was horrified. I quickly sat on the toilet, red faced. My mind raced at a thousand miles an hour with the possibilities of what was to come. But nothing -- my two partners sat effortlessly relaxed, thumbing their newspapers, as my life resumed.

The floor was a smorgasbord of hellish green. The toxic fumes assailed my sense of smell, engulfing me like an angry donut spirit bent on revenge. Half-digested sprinkles littered the floor like spilled matchsticks, mocking my inability to digest them. My dignity shattered, I then released what little had not escaped, and waited for the two gentlemen to leave before beginning the cleanup.

Try as I may, I could not get it fully clean. It smelled. It smeared. It stayed. The caulk sealing the toilet to the floor had taken on a Day-Glo hue. Defeated, I made a hasty exit. The meeting was still ongoing. I returned to my cube and waited for the diarrhea police to arrest me.

They never came. There weren't any consequences, at least not that day. But a week later, we all received a company-wide email stating that whoever is making the mess in the bathroom needs immediately to cease and desist. I felt relieved knowing I was not the only one who couldn't hit the toilet.

-- Sinning