Driving down the road, I was talking to my Dad on the cell phone, reminiscing about a shared experience in which a restroom was violated. Don't worry -- this memory is just the prelude to the storm.

Dad uses a cane and doesn't get around very fast. He has diabetes and, at times, gets very sick. On this particular day, my wife and my mother kept urging Dad to eat. Finally they dragged him off to a Boston Market and bought him a dinner with a fruit salad. He got started.

Dad was dutifully shoveling the fruit salad down and drinking his diet pop. He looked a little green around the gills and seemed shaky. "Dad," I said, "do you need to go to the bathroom?"

"Yes son," he replied. "I think I do." As we slowly made our way to the shitter, I noticed that there was one of those "restroom closed" cones outside; but just then a strapping youth with a mop, rubber gloves, and rubber boots came out and started to mop the dining area. I propped the door open for Dad. He took two steps into the room and began to projectile vomit. He staggered a few more steps, leaned against the wall by the urinal, and proceeded to vomit fruit salad all over the wall and into the urinal. The retching was horrible. The dripping fruit and stomach acid was oozing viscously down the wall.

I have not thrown up since 1984; and I managed to not join in this day. I have a will of iron concerning my stomach. I offered Dad a wad of paper towels and asked if he was feeling all right. He said that he was. We got back out to the dining room just as Mom and the wife were finishing. As I held the door for everyone, I saw a guy wearing a tie and a nametag watching us leave. I said to him, "I just came from your restroom... I think someone was sick in there." Then we quickly left.

Coincidently, or not, that particular Boston Market closed within a month, and is now a Jack in the Box.

Anyway, Dad and I were laughing our asses off recalling this father/son experience. As I said, I have an iron will concerning my stomach. My bowels, on the other hand, respond to stimuli such as laughter by uncoiling. I started to develop some severe cramping and had to tell Dad that I'd call him back -- I was going to find a place to "do some paperwork."

Driving around, I had been munching on peanuts; mayhap a few too many. Peanuts are a butt bane that usually gets the old poop pump working in a matter of hours. Today, though, laughing set things in motion sooner than anticipated. I desperately thought of fast food places, hotels, etc., on the road ahead that might be relied upon to have a clean restroom. I really like a well-maintained shitter. I finally settled on Fred Meyers, a major variety store that keeps its commodes in good repair. Their advertising motto: "You'll Find It at Freddy's." I have had a good experience at that particular store in the past, and knew where to park and how to get where I needed to go.

I found a spot and slowly managed to walk into the store without soiling myself. As I entered, I discovered that they had remodeled since the last time I was there. A little ways in, I saw the new hallway with a sign directing me down the road to relief. I was really sweating; the effort of clenching my cheeks was considerable. I tried to walk nonchalantly, sweating and trembling like a junkie en route to his next fix.

I shuffled into the restroom. They had redecorated with black tile and stainless steel -- very attractive and conducive to the work I had to do. I briefly noted the décor and, even in my troubled state, was pleased with the new look. Then an ominous sign then presented itself: a pool of water on the floor. Aghast, I noticed that there was solid matter in the water.

But at this point, there was no returning. Any other restroom might as well have been on the moon, as I was physically incapable of further travel.

I went to the end of the row of stalls, my preferred work area being the handicapped stall. I like room to get my business done. The handicapped pooper is usually a little elevated, and you have rails to grasp when laboring at your stool. But it was occupied.

The next stall was the source of the puddle on the floor. The toilet was cascading water from a frothy pool of soggy paper interlaced with brown flecks of excrement. I shuddered and moved on. The last stall was my only hope. I tried the door, but it was locked, and I heard some horrible groaning coming from within.

I went to the sink area and started to say my mantra: "Don't shit your pants. Don't shit your pants." It was not working. My bowels were rumbling. Sweat continued to pour down my fevered brow. I prepared a wet wad of paper towels so that I could give the seat a cleansing. Still nobody came out of the two occupied stalls. There was no other bathroom in the entire store. Too cramped to escape, I had no choice.

I fought waves of pain as I made my way to the middle stall. Little shimmers danced in front of my eyes. I gingerly opened the door to see the same putrid mix of feces and paper slowly churning and dripping onto the floor. The seat was raised, as if mocking me. This would have to be a stand-up job.

I barely managed to get my pants to my knees, hold them up off the floor, and more or less aim my ass at the bowl. I grasped the paper dispenser for balance and hoped for the best. A stream of goo the consistency of thick milkshake shot out of my ass. Muscle spasms rippled up and down my body. My knees were shaking. I had no thought other than ridding myself of the load of excrement. A high-pressure gusher of butt mud blasted out. I could feel bits of peanuts scraping my tender chute. Oh sweet Jesus... it was practically orgasmic.

It was over in a matter of seconds, although it seemed as if it had lasted for hours. What mattered was that it was over.

I surveyed myself as I slowly came back into focus. I had one hand holding my pants and underwear up off the floor and away from the toilet; the other was clenching the toilet paper dispenser, still clutching the wad of paper towels. That was good, as there was no usable toilet paper in the stall -- the previous tenant had thoughtfully fouled the remnants of the roll before he left. The towels would have to do. Fortunately the force of the flow had kept my winking brown eye nearly pristine. I managed to get my pants up without becoming fouled. Good job!

I turned to survey my work. (Why do we look?) My aim was true. However, my calculation as to velocity of the projectile was not. I discovered why I had not shat on my pants: my peanut brittle-colored blast had overshot the mark and struck squarely on the hinge area of the seat.

I heard sounds indicating that there was a line of people waiting with needs, perhaps as urgent as mine had been. There was no way I could escape without them thinking that I was the author of the fouled stall. I looked at the pile of stench sitting on the back rim. I closed the seat and voilà! The evidence was out of sight, squashed between the seat and rim. Curiously enough, the seat appeared to be squeaky clean. I had only assumed that it was as foul as the rest of the fetid cubicle. It didn't matter much, though; I could not have sat on it without my manly organs dangling in the foul brew that was roiling in the bowl.

I stepped boldly out of the stall, quickly bolted past the three or so people who were waiting in line, and left the store. I drove to a fast food place and washed my hands.

I then called Dad and told him about the incident, and we started laughing again.

-- Rexcrement