A few years back, I went on a luxurious holiday in Thailand. A wealthy friend of mine sponsored me on this trip because he liked to travel in style, and with company. The trip was packed with quite expensive features, including a limo ride from our beach resort in Hua Hin to our next destination, Bangkok. To my surprise, a uniformed driver picked us up in a dark green Rolls-Royce Saloon, which belonged to a reputable hotel in Thailand's capital.
Since my arrival in Thailand, my stomach had not been feeling well. We had spicy food all the time, and the evening before we left for Bangkok I made the mistake of sipping from a drink filled with ice cubes.
We started in the early hours. Since it was really hot, we decided to dress casually in shorts and shirts. The chauffeur, Tony, was a nice guy. He opened the rear doors and the smell of wood and leather and the cool air in that stunning car made us feel like royalty. So we settled in the back seat of the brand new car and off we went for our three-hour trip up north.
Shortly after our departure, I felt something happening in my stomach. It started off as a minor vibration. About an hour later, the feeling had developed into a kind of a rumble. I did not want to spoil the occasion, so I kept quiet and relied on Tony's information that we had only one hour to go. But an hour later, the rumble had turned into a mild thunderstorm, and I was about to burst. I was moving from cheek to cheek and holding my stomach in pain. I asked Tony to stop the car. I had to go to the shitter so badly, I felt that I was about to explode. Tony refused, explaining that the facilities along Thailand's motorways should be avoided at all costs. We had only twenty minutes to go, and he kindly asked if I could hold it until then. Since I seemed to have my stomach under control, I agreed.
Everyone who has ever experienced a traffic jam in one of Asia's major cities knows what I am talking about. The traffic was stationary -- absolutely solid -- and we were trapped on a four-lane motorway just a few miles away from the hotel. My friend handed over some pills to stop travel-related upset stomachs, but they did not work. Despite the air conditioning in the car, I started sweating and I feeling clearly that this was not going to work out.
I desperately tried to keep my butthole locked and my friend begged me to control the situation. It worked for a few more minutes. I was in pain. Cars all around us. No escape.
A few moments later, the hotel came in sight. As Tony took an elegant swing into the driveway of the building, I was relieved; but only a second later I realized that it was too late. I just had to let go. I felt I had to die.
There was a bubbling sound as a fountain of poop exited my hole, and I felt a warm and fluffy substance filling my shorts. It was a massive amount and it quickly sought its way out of my pants, covering me, my clothing and the rear leather seats in shit. My friend screamed. Tony may not have seen or heard anything, but he was certainly able to smell what had just happened.
The car pulled up in front of the hotel entrance. A Thai boy dressed in a white uniform opened the door and I almost fell out, shit dripping from my shorts, the leather seat soaked in liquid poop. Barely able to walk, I finally made my way to the restroom, leaving the car and its magnolia-colored Connolly leather seats in pretty nasty condition. I was too embarrassed to return back to confront Tony, and my friend settled the issue discretely.
We stayed three days in that hotel in Bangkok. When we checked out and found nothing on our bill which was related to that "incident," my friend felt obliged to ask the receptionist if there was no "fee" to be charged for "an unfortunate event" that took place a few days before. The receptionist, obviously knowing exactly what had happened, replied with a grin on her face that the hotel is "comprehensively insured against any kind of accidents caused by guests."
Before we departed, we left a generous tip for Tony, as we were sure that he was the one who had to clean up that mess.
