I think the worst I ever had to take a shit was when I was driving through Montana on my way back from Montreal (see this story for other highlights from the trip).

The whole journey lasted about a five weeks. Two weeks driving, one week in Montreal, and another two weeks in Minneapolis. I ate a lot of weird foods that my body wasn't used to.

As stated in the other story, on the way to Montreal I ate burritos and made a brief pit stop in Minneapolis. In Montreal I ate mounds of poutine and Mr. Noodles. In Minneapolis I stayed with some people I'd met in Montreal. There I ate Ben and Jerry's Ice Cream by the bucket, as well as Pickle in a Bag and icy 7-11 cappuccinos slushy drinks by the gallon. Now that I look back on it, I'd think I would've had the runs. Instead, I was pretty bunged up.

Soon enough I was feeling homesick. Alone with my dog and a bunch of music tapes, we started on our way back to BC. I drove and sang and drove and sang some more in a delirious frenzy. I didn't really think about painting the bowl until I hit the mid-Montana. That's when my entire gluttonous road feast caught up with me.

I was in between Buttfuckville and Nowheresburg when I felt the Herculean intestinal punch mid-note of a heavy metal song. If you've driven that stretch, I'm sure you can attest to the fact that there really isn't anywhere to get gas -- let alone unload.

I could feel the giant, ice cream-covered pickle trying to push its way out of my anus. I puckered up and shuffled around in my car seat, trying to utilize the seat's firmness to hold it back.

I started panicking. Annoyed with my music by that point, I turned it off so I could concentrate on my lower muscle usage.

Near frightened tears, I drove for about an hour until I reached a gas station. There was absolutely nothing around, and the whole situation reminded me of something out of The Creep Show.

Scared for my life, I ran in. I met the overweight lady with a tight pink neon t-shirt on and an over-processed blonde nest on her head at the counter. I begged, "Oh my God! Can I please use your washroom?"

She looked at me with disgust. She'd seen my type before. She handed me a bucket lid with a key attached, pointed to a door on her left, and said, "The can's thadda way." Clenching my ass cheeks, I scurried to the door she pointed to.

Opening the door brought gleeful emotion. It was like being accepted into the gates of Heaven after indulging in all sins life has to offer.

I unzipped then yanked down my pants and panties as I sat down on the throne. I felt the brown baby come out half way. It hurt like glass, but I knew that I had no medical coverage in the USA. I'd have to deliver this fucker in a gas station bathroom then try to flush him, whether he or I liked it or not.

I grunted and let out a moan. Purple faced and light-headed, I rested for a moment to catch my cool. I got my composure back and did the process over again and again.

Once the bastard was born, I felt a splash on my ass. I wiped, but there were no skids to wipe.

I stood up and had a look at my boy before sending him the sewer gods. He wasn't too long -- just abnormally wide. Probably seven inches in diameter. I don't really know. Kinda of cute, really. But it felt like I just passed a 2-liter.

After the experience, I gassed up the car and headed on until we hit a small town with a McDonalds. Exhausted from driving and from the delivery, I decided I needed a rest. The dog and I passed out in the car behind the greasy restaurant. When we were woke in the morning by some pimple-faced McDonalds employees telling us to leave, I was hungry.

Travel food = McDonalds. And the cycle continues...

-- Snapper