A couple of years ago, Pope John Paul II came to St. Louis. As a practicing Roman Catholic, this was an exciting time, especially when I found out I had a ticket to go to the mass he was to celebrate at the TWA Dome/St. Louis Convention Center.

Of course these tickets befell my friends and I at the last minute, so there was no chance of getting a hotel room within a hundred miles of the city. We decided we would drive through the night from Cincinnati to get there in the morning, and then drive back afterwards. It was about a six-hour drive each way, but hey, we're young.

With the background in place, let's begin the real story. Exhausted, yet fully attentive, I listed to the Pope's homily after the Gospel reading. He spoke for quite a while and as he was talking, I began to feel a little rumbling in my gut.

At first it wasn't too severe, so I paid little attention to it, but the more he spoke, the worse I felt. I knew it was inevitable that I was going to have to do the thing I most dread: take a dump in a public toilet. Not just any toilet, mind you, but one that 100,000 people had access to.

I did the best I could to hold off as long as I could, but the tremors I was feeling in my gut would certainly soon give way to a violent bowel quake. Out of respect for the Pope, I held out through the rest of his sermon, but as soon as he finished, I was off to the races.

I prayed to God that I would find at least a semi-clean hopper to sit on, and He rewarded me by having the first bowl past the urinals open and seemingly clean. Still, I felt the need to cover the seat with toilet paper. I sat down, sweating and in pain from the cramps that had befallen me. I hoped that outside, as they read the prayers of the faithful, that they would include me in my hour of need.

Soon after I sat down, the poop started to flow like the River Jordan. Believe me, when I was done, Moses would have thought twice about trying to part that sea. I was making a tremendous amount of noise (groaning, farting, and splashing all at once). I wondered what the people outside were thinking, but in all honesty, I didn't really care. That is significant, because noise, along with the unsanitary nature of public restrooms are the two main reasons why I loathe them so much.

Although I cared not for the scene I was making, I still waited long enough for all the witnesses of my shame to evacuate. Eventually I decided that my bowels had nothing more to offer, and that there had been ample time for the witnesses to disperse, so I decided it was time to clean up and go back to my seat.

If you thought the story was over, I'm afraid you're wrong. As much as I wish you were right, you're wrong.

I guess this is as good a time as any to let you know that I was wearing a shirt with a breast pocket, in which I had my camera. Now, I am a stand-and-bend wiper, and that poses a problem when in your un-buttonable shirt pocket, you have a camera.

Of course the camera fell out on the urinal side of the stall. I froze in horror as I heard it hit the ground and fall away from my sight. What could I do but finish the job? So I did, and as I was about to go look for my camera, it appeared under the wall of my prison of shame - my own presonal confessional, if you will.

I thanked whoever the kind Samaritan was that handed me both the camera and the batteries that had fallen out on impact. I never did see who it was. I quickly grabbed it, washed my hands, and got out without making eye-contact with anyone on the way out. Thankfully, I made it all the way back to Cincinnati without another incident.

-- Pat