Quite a number of years ago, I was a construction worker. Living in a small town about 30 miles from the site, the day always started around 5 AM with an early morning drive to work.

Now, normally I did not eat a big breakfast; usually a cup of coffee would suffice. But this day I was a bit famished from the previous night's exploits -- a huge seafood dinner combined with excessive beer and a late night snack of the biggest chili/cheese/jalapeno burrito anyone has ever seen. Needless to say, Mt. Etna had been relocated to my intestinal track and was marching inexorably to its next eruption.

After slamming down three cups of very strong coffee, I set out for work. At 5AM, nothing is open in this town save the all-night diner with the Health Department rating of D. It must have been an omen when, as I passed this Tavern Of Botulism, I felt the first pangs of gaseous bubbling rumble in my guts. I passed it off as a minor nuisance and continued on.

You have to understand: the worksite was a good 30 miles away, and the only town on the route was even smaller than the one I came from. Yet, having gone at least 10 miles, after realizing the mounting pressure and ever-increasing seismic activity in my gut was going to require an immediate evacuation of the surrounding area, I stupidly figured there would be SOMETHING open at 5 AM, so I pressed on. Wrong. Not a light on anywhere.

Now I was getting desperate. I calculated the total time to the jobsite. I even formulated a plan of attack for the first available Port-O-Potty. Judging that there was no way to make it, I decided to turn around and head back to the Casa De Salmonella. After all, it was only 10 miles away, and if I drove fast enough, I would have enough time to get there, do my business, and still make it to work on time.

Time passes slowly when the bowels are irritated. My large intestines seemed to scream at me; the pucker factor had increased 10-fold. With my foot in the carburetor, I pressed on, praying to every saint I could think of to help me hold back the flood. Funny how one can remember every prayer ever learned, isn't it?

Finally reaching Restaurant From Hell, I raced in and, with my bum spasms at a fever pitch, begged the waitress for the location of the facilities. "Outside around the back," was her answer. I think I screamed because at this point my desperation had turned to sheer panic. Vesuvius was about to erupt and there was no way to stop it.

I left the two-toothed wonder and raced out and around the back. I considered briefly using the women's toilet, but pride overrode ass-puckering, and I continued on to the men's. Now, at this point, one would think my plight was over. Wrong. The nightmare had just begun!

First: no lights. Repeated switch flipping made that fact indisputable. With what little light there was, I could see another serious concern: no toilet paper. But that was OK, since some kind soul had left the previous day's edition of the local newspaper conveniently located near the toilet bowl. At this point, I didn't care what I had available for a hygienic cleaning. I did momentarily consider going back to the lady's toilet, but now, with a porcelain receptacle within assreach, I thought better.

I clawed at my belt (cursing myself for wearing it at all), and, after shoving my pants down halfway, swiveled my ass around towards the toilet. Too late. The show had started and I was the main attraction.

I never knew poop could be shot at such velocity, or could achieve such distance.

My poop hit the side wall, the back wall, the toilet tank and the seat before my ass even touched down. A never-ending stream. It was everywhere. It filled my underwear.

It was quite surreal, in fact. I looked over to my right and was amazed to follow the track -- a straight line, then an upward arc, back down the rear wall, and finally onto the toilet tank itself.

After finishing this agony and reciting several novenas, I quickly rid myself of soiled undergarments, cleaned myself with the front page of the local rag, and hurried out to escape to the comfort of my own home for a bath of hot water and Lysol. I don't know why, but at this point I just needed to be clean. I didn't bother to flush.

On my way back to the car, another man passed me. He didn't get a good look at me, fortunately. As I jumped in my car, I heard "Oh my God!!!" followed by a retching sound.

Needless to say, I didn't make it to work that day. And to this day I haven't been back to that place. I think they probably put out a hit on me anyway.

At any rate, there's a lesson in all this: plan your route for emergencies!

-- Nowombi