Daria is driving. She is my twenty-year-old female friend from England. She is over here for six months, working for a manufacturing company in the Personnel Department; and even though I was twenty-six, we've struck up a nice friendship. She is soft-spoken, extremely intelligent, inquisitive, feminine, empathetic, and highly intuitive -- all the qualities that I love in a woman. Like many European women, she is capable of conversation below the surface, in the realm of concepts and ideas.

We'd eaten at Hardee's several hours earlier (do y'all have Hardee's in other parts of the country? I've seen them as far north as Virginia, but not sure if they're out west). After burgers, we'd gone to a movie. Can't remember which one now, but this was during the Star Wars The Next Generation period. Everything was perfect. I felt comfortable around her. But that comfort level was about to be tested.

We're driving up the boulevard just after the movie, chatting about the flick, and without any warning whatsoever, a wonderful feeling washes over me. I don't need to fart, shit, puke, squat, squeeze, drip, pinch, or burp... I need to do ALL of them. NOW!!!

This is pretty unusual. Not the gastro problems -- I eat out a lot and am used to them. Usually a quick poop and I'm fine. What is unusual is that I almost always have plenty of warning. But here it is, a thirty minute drive back home (we're cruising in her rented Cutlass two-door), and suddenly I'm not sure I'm gonna make it. I'm STUCK!

All of my usual car travel options are unthinkable. A trial fart is out of the question. Whatever it is that wants out of my asshole is much too toxic for a bit of misdirection: rolling down the window for some air, and letting an innocent and undetectable SBD swirl out of the window.

And we are past all the decent restaurants. We could hit a dessert joint and I could go to the loo and pull off a "urination shyte" -- the type where you don't want people to know you had to uncork Kilimanjaro, so you sit on the throne, squeeze hard, flush, wipe, and get up quick with that the-worst-of-it-is-over-but-people-will-tell-I-didn't- get-it-all-by-the-way-I'm-shuffling-with-a-box-of-Pringles-up-my-ass feeling. This strategy is usually reserved for meeting the future in-laws, first dates, or office parties. But there's nowhere to go within sight! The dessert scheme will have to wait. (I caution you to use it when appropriate, though. There's absolutely nothing more disheartening than being on a date and using the bathroom and then someone coming out and saying loudly, "Who died in there?")

The moment of truth is now here. I'm not going to make it home. I'm GOING to shit. Soon.

And then I see the golden arches up ahead.

But not the ones you're thinking of. I see "Waffle House" blinking like a giant hillbilly bug zapper in the sky.

Don't get me wrong. I happen to like Waffle House. Once again, I don't think they have Waffle Houses anywhere but in Dixie. They keep the grits warm. But it is not my first choice for making an embarrassing scene. If you've ever been in one, you know that they're lit by the same 3000-watt halogen space shuttle bulbs they use at dermatologist offices to burn off hairy moles.

I turn to Daria. In a lighthearted manner, I break the glorious news. "Remember Hardees? You feeling all right?"

She's feeling just fine. "Well, something's burning. I might have to make a little stop up here at the Waffle House." She laughs. I like this girl.

We pull in and I see several bony ancient mannequin-like creatures huddled over their bowls of grits, smoking filterless Pall Malls. A decade of smoke and grease huddles over the sad sacks. Goat farmers night.

Something happens next that will make the whole sordid event more horrifying: Daria flips on her brights and pulls directly in front of the place, blasting even MORE luminescence across the building. Each hillbilly squints in our direction, turning from their stools. They look paranoid. Maybe they think that Sheriff Hawkins saw their car in the lot and wants to haul them downtown for a cavity search to make good on that pit bull summons. I try to make myself small, but every eye is on us. Feeling for my door handle, I exit the car and begin to make my way inside. I try to look dignified but it ain't gonna happen.

Each beady eye appraises me while I make my way into the place. George Straight is playing on the jukebox. Avoiding eye contact, I feel strong emotional vibes on my flank as I head toward the boys' room: "Yankee," "loser," and several other unmentionable epithets.

The relief of entering the bathroom is great. I lock the door and then throw down my flaming turd tenderizer. A smoking, sweltering biohazard careens out of my tush faster than I can say "toy boat."

I try to expedite the situation, but that's not in the cards. Gonna be awhile.

When making my way out of the restroom, I decide to be a grown-up and make eye contact with anyone man enough. The beady eyes are all on me, as is the smell of burning chicken, grits, cigars, body odor, Old Spice, burlap, Aqua Net, and a few other scents less recognizable. Daria is where I left her.

I enter the car. All eyes are still on us as she makes the getaway.

The ride home was really funny. I should have proposed to Daria. What a babe!

I wish the story had a better ending, but mainly I remember how Daria was such a good sport about the whole thing. Who ever said that English people are uptight?

-- Donnie M.