The following is a true story -- one I wish wasn't, but nevertheless, I have to accept it as for what it is. I was twelve years old at the time, a sixth grader at Marquez Elementary School in Pacific Palisades, California. It was only a year after I had mysteriously contracted a very mild case of cholera, so diarrhea was nothing new to me. I assume that this incident was totally unrelated to that illness -- it's more about stupidity and arrogance on the part of my stepfather.

My stepfather was a terrible alcoholic. This particular evening he wanted to take me out to dinner at a very expensive hotel, the Santa Ynez Inn. Well, that was kind of him to invite me out to eat, fine. The restaurant had an outdoor area by a swimming pool and was surrounded by lush vegetation. But it was winter and too cold to eat out by the pool, so it was about a half-hour wait before our table was ready. Since I was too young to actually go to the bar, we had to sit at some tables by the entry area. He had his drink as I had wolfed down two Roy Rogers (like Shirley Temples, but made with cola instead of 7-Up). On my second Roy Rogers, I began to feel queasy, and my stomach started to grow quite painful. I hoped it would pass, but as the evening progressed, it only got worse. (I seriously doubt that the Roy Rogers caused my predicament -- rather, it was probably the food at Marquez School earlier that day.)

We got to our table and I ordered as usual, assuming that some food would help the pain go away. My Salisbury steak came with mixed veggies and a sort of potato puree that must have been squirted out of a cake icing syringe. With my stomach getting only worse and with the sight of the food, I quickly lost any appetite I had. I ate the potato puree and the mixed vegetables okay, and drank my milk just fine, but I had a hard time with the steak. It was salty and a bit on the dry side, and just not palatable to me at that moment.

But my dad was a purebred asshole. In spite of telling him that I wasn't feeling so good, he only complained that he had paid good money for this dinner and that I'd better eat it regardless. So, as he kept haranguing me, I forced myself to finish my meal -- which took a while to accomplish. And this only made matters worse.

After finishing my struggle to pound down the last morsel of Mr. Salisbury, my dad waited for the bill; and after the financial part of the evening was taken care of, we left to go back home. I was totally out of sorts. I felt nauseated. I headed for the loo, as I was certain the forced meal would be rejected. But it didn't happen. I gave up trying to upheave my expensive dinner and left the loo, and we left the inn.

It was on the way to my dad's 1962 white-with-red-interior Mercury Comet in the garage when my stomach finally revolted and evicted Mr. Salisbury from its midst. But that twit was still clueless about my predicament.

It was about a twenty-minute drive home from the hotel. I only felt worse, and I knew that something was seriously wrong. I felt chilled, and I thought I had a fever. My stomach was in knots. I was so embarrassed that I had tried my best not to let on as to just how sick I was. My intestines felt like they were going to explode. But I endured all this as quietly as humanly possible.

Then the unimaginable happened. My gut began to rumble -- it was quite audible, and I felt the remnants of Mr. Salisbury shifting positions within my gut. I was in such excruciating pain that I had to break my silence, moaning and groaning in pure agony. Then, with only very short warning, I had a sudden urge to shit. I mean, I really had to go -- badly! I was very worried that I was going to shit my pants in his car.

I demanded that we find a filling station ASAP, or at least pull over so I could get out and take a dump on the side of the road. The bastard simply refused! He would not stop, telling me that I was okay, and ordering me to stop carrying on about being sick -- as if I were making this all up! -- and that I was his "favorite son" (I was his only fucking adopted son!) and that it would be impossible for me to become ill.

Well, as dictated by the Law of Causality, the pressure in my bunghole grew so great that it finally overpowered the sphincter. That was it! I felt this torrent of hot stuff shoot out of my hole into my pants and begin to run down my legs and up my crack. I had diarrhea in the car! Great! Now what? I wasn't going to say anything, hoping he wouldn't notice. But that wouldn't happen because soon both of our olfactory senses fell under grievous assault. It stank to high Heaven.

Great. Here I was riding with my stepdad in his Mercury Comet with all the windows closed and with the stench of my poop being recycled through the heater. Since he was drunk, and knowing his terrible temper, I knew for sure I was about to have my eardrums assaulted with his $25,000 tenor opera singing training.

"David! You took a crap in my car! Didn't you? You fucking shit in my car! God, it stinks in here. You fucking shit in your pants, didn't you?" I didn't think it worthy of answering him, so I kept silent. But he kept carrying on. "You fucking took a shit in my fucking car! Now answer me!"

Finally, I could not take any more of his yelling. I exploded back at him. "Yes! Yes! Yes! I fucking shit in your fucking precious car! I couldn't help it! God, you are SUCH AN ASS! I asked back there to pull over so I could shit on the road! But no, your precious son never gets fucking sick, remember? And you wouldn't even have the consideration to fucking stop! God, what a motherfucking asshole you are!"

Dead silence. What could he say? He was so stupid not to heed my warning, and he bloody well got what he deserved. He was dumbfounded -- his "perfect" son was actually sick! He couldn't believe it.

It was torture for both of us, but especially yours truly, as I had to bask in my own fecal matter; he was drunk, so the alcohol could buffer the stench a bit for him. I had one more urgent release before we arrived home, but the damage had already beendone, so it didn't really matter.

It was going to be a challange to get out of his precious car and into the house and the bathroom without spilling my load everywhere. But I had to do something! I got the courage to get out of the Comet. And surely as water flows downard, this awful, stinky, stinging vile stuff spilled out of my pants. It was nightfall, so I couldn't see it, but I could sure tell by the feel of it.

I wound up tracking it all through the house on the way to the bathroom. There I could see it was a sickly tannish yellow color. All in all, I had the runs all night long, with countless visits to the bathroom and one small accident in bed. After the second day, the doctor was called; after an exam and some lab tests, I was diagnosed with a bad case of campylobacter food poisoning. I was ill in bed for three days before I finally began to make a recovery.

-- The Other David