Editor's Note: PoopReporter John Dot Jones emailed me this story by Andy Miller of The Big Wu. It first appeared on jambands.com; responding to my inquiry, Mr. Miller said he was happy to see it reprinted here.
While trekking across the frozen wasteland known as Montana, a roadie announced that he was experiencing a disturbance of the gastrointestinal kind. Being lunchtime and needing fuel, all members of our party voted to take a break from traveling. The roadie, who's bowels were screaming for attention, jumped out of the vehicle and made a mad dash for the Flying J building, where he could find shelter from the literal shit storm that was descending upon him.
However, the gods of touring had turned on him. A mere fifty yards before he reached the safety of the Flying J haven, with all of its well-maintained facilities, his body lurched into revolt, expelling a moderately robust turd into his Hanes.
After cleaning himself up (and disposing his soiled briefs), he rejoined his partners in crime at the lunch buffet within the truck stop. After sharing his embarrassment for the benefit of comedy within the ranks of his party, he dined on a wonderful smorgasbord of edibles offered to weary travelers. However, his full-bellied satisfaction soon transformed to an impending sense of doom as he began to feel a familiar urge.
Knowing he must act quickly before history repeated itself, the protagonist bolted out of the restaurant, relying on his internal compass to navigate him back to this diarrheic's haven, the men's room. But as he emerged into the open spaces of the truck stop, he realized that the familiar potty he stopped at before was on the other side of the building -- a good hundred yards, at least. Quickly reacting to his new set of circumstances, he looked for a closer facility.
Frantically searching, his eyes hit pay dirt. There, a mere twenty yards to his left, was a sign bearing the international symbol for poop amnesty. Running towards the promised land as fast as one can while doing the bow-legged mosey/sprint that is only performed by a man under great duress, he reached the door that served as the goal line of his poopy end zone only to find that the restroom he chose was designated for the fairer sex.
While that alone may not have deterred him from completing his most urgent mission, his doo-doo designs were further halted by a female representative of the Montana State Trooper Patrol who was washing her hands. Meanwhile, our hero's body had begun to automatically relax when it had started to believe that relief was in sight. Upon the shock of realizing the mistake made, the roadie in question did the only thing he could do: he crapped himself on the spot.
Many variations on this tale have been told over the years; perhaps the sight of an officer of the law was too much for this rock-n-roll bandit, or maybe he should have dined on a bottle of Pepto Bismo instead of truck stop buffet food. But one thing's for sure: he's the one and only person I've known over the age of six that has shit his pants twice within forty-five minutes.
-- Andy Miller
