One night I went out to dinner with my sister, her daughter, and my two children, who were 2 and 3 at the time. My wife was working that night, and my sister suggested we try a new Italian eatery that had just opened up on the other side of town.

At the restaurant, I was famished, though I shouldn't have been -- I had eaten a sizable lunch earlier in the day, and really had no business even eating again that day. But as usual, my eyes were larger than my not-inconsiderable stomach, and my relentless need to eradicate all edibles from all environments at mealtime spelled imminent doom. I ordered up the biggest, meatiest calzone the place had. Of course, it wasn't enough for me. My kids couldn't finish their pizza, and I couldn't let it go to waste. Needless to say, I was good and topped off when it was time to leave.

As we got situated in the minivan, I felt a little grumbling down below -- my first indication that there would be a rectal onslaught later in the evening. However, it seemed remote, and I reckoned I could make it home without difficulty. So we began the eight-mile journey home.

Before long, however, the pressure intensified to an uncomfortable, yet not unbearable level. At this point I mentioned to my sister that the Defcon status had been raised a notch, or perhaps two. Always willing to help a family member in need, my sister recommended we stop at our brother's house, which was on the way home from the restaurant and coming up shortly. But pride got the better of me, as visions of devastating Jason's girlfriend's bathroom with anal fireworks played out viciously in my head.

By this time, I was still a good five or six miles from home; over the next mile, the pressure intensified greatly. There was now a definite sense of urgency, and I felt like a fool for passing up such a potentially glorious dumping ground a mile back. I notified my sister that I didn't know if I was going to make it.

The flatulence began. All the food I had eaten that day conspired together to form something beyond account, something without reason. The noxious fumes filled the interior of the van far quicker than I ever could have imagined -- I have to wonder what the "speed of fart" really is. Needless to say, everyone involved was highly displeased. My sister promptly rolled down her window and hung her head over the side, for fear I would induce vomiting. My children -- and this is (almost) the worst feeling -- began complaining that "Daddy stinks!"

But now I was clenching so hard that I was actually lifting my ass out of the driver's seat; I couldn't even pass wind for fear of what would come with it. Attempting to forestall the inevitable, working harder than I can ever recall doing in the weight room, I worked up a sweat so powerful that my face was drenched. Beads were pouring down my forehead and nose, pooling in the divot above my lip. Meanwhile, the cabin had aired out enough that my sister could gaze with fascination at my Zen-like concentration; she was in hysterics at the sight of me.

This of course, undermined my efforts. But I want to go on record that I made a good account of myself, and held on for at least a couple more miles.

I pride on being a pretty tough individual, but no man can really withstand a solid blow to the sack, and that's what hit me, though I know not from where. Between my testicular symphony, my stomach cramps, and the gluteal workout I was subjecting myself to, for one ill-advised moment I chose to acknowledge the absurdity of my situation. I let out a chuckle. But as you can guess, friends, that wasn't all I let out. I unleashed a torrent of hot, thick shit into my underwear, which almost seemed to sear my unprepared legs and ass cheeks. But I didn't go down without a fight, for I clenched mightily and the flow abated. Clearly, there was more to come. I had lost this battle, but I had driven the enemy back. Unfortunately, he still had plenty of time to regroup his forces.

We were still two miles from home, and the stench in the vehicle was beyond description. Still warding off my inner demons, in a remarkable amount of intestinal anguish, I realized that there was no way I could venture into a public restroom in this condition. I was in this for the long haul, like it or not. With a load in my pants, wallowing in my own odor, and with children still complaining incessantly, I again snigger at my misfortune.

Description of what next ensued is difficult. A sticky, glutinous mess, equal in proportion to bout number one, assaulted me and overpowered the dam that my underwear had become, overflowing down the conduits that were my legs, and into the vessels my socks provided. I struggled against the horror, knowing that it was a losing battle; but I was still not yet finished.

We finally arrived home, and I had to make the walk through my apartment complex to my apartment on the third floor. Squishing in my shoes, much like on a rainy day, I was beyond fear of physical discomfort; now, I was mainly concerned with the potential public shame of running into a neighbor -- even the dim-wittedest of them would know the score. Thank god for small favors, for in this small area, luck was on my side; I made to my residence unobserved, save my children, who by now thought the entire situation to be uproariously funny.

Once inside the confines of my own bathroom, I assessed the damage: fecal matter caked to my legs, my clothing beyond repair. But believe it or not, I still had more shit to go. I hovered over the bowl and let loose another surge of butt mud. After I was sure it was all expelled, the pants, underwear, and socks went out onto the deck, so as to prevent further contamination of the premises. You see, when my wife arrived a half hour later, she knew that someone had befouled themselves the moment she stepped into the hallway of the apartment building. And of course, my darling children eliminated any doubt as to who the culprit was.

-- Johnny Crap Corn