Late one cold evening, I was starting my shift as an EMT in the hospital emergency room. I had been suffering from gastric problems associated with a bacterial stomach infection, but I was beginning to get pretty comfortable with my infirmity. I thought that if I shat at home before coming to work, I would be in good shape for the rest of my twelve-hour shift.

That night, the ER was full. I had an unfortunate patient who had bitten off her tongue in an automobile accident. I devised a system using a high-pressure water setup to wash out her mouth. As I crouched down to her level, I felt the unmistakable signs of my own high-pressure setup. I hoped I'd be able to hold out until I could make it all the way to the staff restroom, which afforded more privacy and comfort than the nearby patient bathroom.

As I squatted by the patient, with my foot strategically positioned to stop the flow, I felt -- like any addict -- that I could quit at any time. How wrong I was.

Soon the patient's mouth was clean and I knew I could stop washing. But I also knew that if I got up I might do something to really make my patient forget about her problems. So I continued rinsing. I continued for almost twenty minutes, until my rinser ran out of water. Luckily, the brown menace had receded slightly as well. I figured it was now or never -- I just might be able to pull off a mad dash to the patients' bathroom, only eight feet from the ER (and from all the patients and my coworkers, too).

Now, this bathroom was no stranger to mess. It had been carefully designed to handle even the crappiest patient and still be easily cleaned with a garden hose. To facilitate such simple cleanup, there is nothing but hard, shiny surfaces. Thus the acoustics, if possible, are even more reverberant than a normal bathroom. While I was happy to know that if I missed I would not be the first, I was terrified by the cavernous echo that accompanied this room. There was no chance that the entire ER could possibly avoid being as thunderstruck as I was.

I managed to make it inside and get the door closed. In my exuberance I dropped trou and downloaded like the Internet would be gone tomorrow. The accompanying sound was truly awesome. I felt like Ah Peku and Coyopa, the Mayan gods of thunder, had been reincarnated in my ass and were unleashing their long-suppressed revenge right then and there. When I looked down, it seemed that maybe Ah Mun, the god of corn, might have paid his respects as well.

After the storm passed, I grabbed the 80-grit institutional grade butt wipe and did my mopping up. While I was very relieved to finally be able to relax my aching sphincter, I was also well aware that this bathroom was designed to be easily accessible from the outside by the staff. I knew that any moment, my friends might burst in there to "help" me.

Finally, it was time to face the adoring crowd. Even though I opened the door with an "it wasn't me" look on my face, most people could see that I was pale and sweaty, so they probably knew I was responsible for the fact that Hurakan (God of wind and storm) had just visited our establishment.

I retreated back to the routine of patient treatment, happy to be free of my burden. I just prayed that I could get through the next nine hours of my shift without needing to make another run for the border.

-- Lutz