As a long-time sufferer of Irritable Bowel Syndrome (also known by the dreadful name of 'Spastic Colon'), I have many, many close calls to share. I could, for instance, describe the medium-term consequences of eight cups of Waffle House coffee combined with a road trip with Mommy Dearest; or I could reflect on why you should wait until you are sure that the Imodium has kicked in before venturing into the heavily trafficked and utterly bathroom-free Mexico City botanical garden (and what you must be prepared to do if you ignore my advice); or I could even detail the why and how of the five very nervous minutes it took me to evacuate seven bowls of bean-laden chili in the trash chute room of a very busy apartment complex in Los Angeles.

All of those are great stories, which, if the public demands, may make their way into the public domain via PoopReport. But for my inaugural effort, there truly is only one story worthy of being chronicled in this august journal: the nearest near miss of them all -- that of the Istanbul airport.

Now, as a bit of background, it should go without saying that it is my habit to scope out every possible poop stop on my regular routes to work, to the gym, to favorite restaurants, and so on, so as to absolutely minimize the risk of having a Spastic Colon Moment. Where others have a map of favorite fishing holes burned into their minds, I know exactly which convenience stores, coffee shops, cafes, restaurants, McDonalds, Burger Kings, KFCs, pizza parlors, Internet cafes, Starbucks, gas stations, office parks, bars, clubs, American Legion halls, hospitals, etc., etc... I know exactly where to find bathrooms that are clean, functioning, and open to the public. And there is a good chance that I have been to most of them at one time or another.

I also try to arrange my life in such a way as to avoid potential trouble. I try not to let someone else drive (it's more embarrassing to ask someone else to stop than it is to stop yourself); I try to be the last one to board an airplane; I try to get the aisle seat; and I try to not take buses without installed facilities.

Ah, yes, buses without facilities! That gets us to our story proper.

Several years ago I found myself in Istanbul with a group of fellow students. We were having a great time of it and indulging in the great local food. There were a few modest bouts of the green apple quickstep (including one in a squatter that, despite my efforts to keep it clean, rendered the place all but unusable), but nothing that a veteran like me couldn't handle. I suppose that someone not used to piss-butt diarrhea might have been freaked out or would not have had the necessary sphincter muscle tone to hold it in; but for me, it was just another day at the office.

Until departure day.

I woke up feeling a little queasy and wondered if the diarrhea imps were finally going to visit. I chuckled to myself and said that I couldn't imagine Turkish microbes could throw something at me that I couldn't handle. I had a few cases of the squirts before the bus left at 11:00, and thought that would hold me until our flight arrived back in England at 4:00.

We boarded the bus for the forty-five minute drive to the airport. As soon as I sat down, I cursed myself for not taking a cab. The Turkish butt imps were angry about my lack of respect and had taken my case up to the mighty Old Testament Gods that ruled them -- and the Gods were full of righteous anger, and in a very playful mood. My stomach churned like I had eaten a city full of whirling dervishes. I brought my trained sphincter to a vise-like close and desperately tried to avoid moving a muscle -- if I fail, I told myself, I would be sitting in a huge brown puddle in a matter of nanoseconds.

The first wave passed and I looked wanly out the window, watching the buildings pass at an agonizing fifteen miles per hour. I made the snap decision that clean shorts were more important than pride, so I stood up -- easy there, fellow, not too fast! -- and headed up front to beg the driver to pull over at a restaurant. As I got up next to him, I noticed that we were pulling onto a toll road. I groaned, the Gods smiled wickedly, and we both redoubled our efforts. Still a draw.

I wish I could give more details of the next twenty minutes, but it was like an acid dream. I was sweating, nauseous, and utterly focused on one thing: keeping that one-way dark beer spigot shut! Occasionally I would pull ahead and the cramps would subside; and occasionally the forces of evil would almost overwhelm me, and it was only long years of practice that kept me from becoming just another statistic in the great brown book of those who failed when it mattered most.

Then -- oh, hope! -- a sign for the airport. Five kilometers! We were closer than I realized -- and the bus would drop us off at the terminal! I waved a friend over and asked to her get my luggage; I would meet her in line inside.

I suppose I had never really reflected on the expression "So close, and yet so far" before I got off that bus; but that moment has since become an occasion for deep and profound thinking on the subject. As I leapt off, I saw -- in one glance -- that my reality was worse than I could have imagined: I had to clear baggage screening to get into the terminal. It truly sucked to be me.

Frantic, I stood for a few moments in line, hoping that it would move fast; but I quickly realized that I would be in line for at least forty-five minutes. My mind raced: the parking lot between parked cars? But where was the parking lot, and what if got caught? Break in line? Try to hold on and pray that I would make it? And if I crapped my pants, how in the world would I change and not smell like poop?

And then I saw my salvation! The flight attendant's entrance! It was three hundred yards away, but I knew it was my only hope. I hobbled over, one agonizing step after the other, and begged the security guy in my broken Turkish (basically "bathroom" and "please," combined with the characteristic diarrhea stance that we all know -- hopping from foot to foot -- and a look in my eyes that is understandable in ANY language) to let me in. I had to go -- bad!!

He wouldn't budge, but I persisted. And persisted. Finally, he shook his head, looked at my passport, and let me through after running my carry-on through the x-ray machine as I begged the conveyor belt to go FASTER, please. I sprinted to the bathroom, leaving him running behind me, and started pooping while my ass was still eight inches off the seat. It was that close!

After I flushed and came out, the policeman went into the stall and lifted the lid of the tank to make sure that I had not left a bomb or other explosive device. I did not have the language resources to explain to my new friend that a bomb far more deadly than anything I could have left in the tank had been seconds away from exploding in my pants.

The Gods were not satisfied with the lesson that day. My presumption had been too great. As soon as I got back into line, the urgency hit again. But this time I held on and just made it to the terminal loo. There was even toilet paper. I think I had won the Gods' respect.

-- Likes 'Em Long and Pointy