I was having an unusual morning to begin with. I was supposed to meet up with my stranded sister and friends, who had experienced car trouble on the way to Disneyland. As I coasted along the interstate that summer morning somewhere on the road from Phoenix, Arizona, to BFE, California, I got the call. The previous night's Moon Over My Hammy had betrayed me in the worst possible way: my churning innards were formulating a full-on fiber bomb. My body's threat level plummeted suddenly from green to orange, and my mind raced for solutions as a cold sweat broke out all over my head and forearms.
The obvious options for road dumping came to mind first, of course. Stopping by the side of the road to make an emergency airdrop was out of the question -- even though there were no other vehicles in sight, this WAS an interstate, not some country lane. Receptive as I am to fecal comedy, I was not about to be the butt of jokes. A gas station seemed like wishful thinking, too, as the landscape was societally blank. I began to fear the worst: my strength failing, and meaty chunks riding a gravy train out of my balloon-knot like muddy water bursting out of the mineshaft in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.
And suddenly, a hero appears. As I turned a rocky corner, I discovered a truck stop diner. I found myself pressing the brakes far earlier than usual, as if to accentuate my intense desire to pull in. Of course the only available parking areas were along the far side of the building, as far as possible from the door.
Forgoing the obligatory stretch, I shuffled as normally as possible into the establishment and past the few customers still milling about. Alas, the ONLY restroom was locked, with a handwritten sign taped across the door and a yellow "wet floor" cone standing guard. I backtracked and inquired about an employee's bathroom -- yes, I was desperate enough to make social contact.
Fortunately, the plump waitress was sympathetic. She directed me past the kitchen to a grimy door in the back.
The door was not a misleading cover for the room beyond. Inside I found a dank and scummy lair, where a single moldy throne was accompanied by a chipped sink and a tiny mirror.
None of this mattered at the time, of course. I had entered the ring and was more than ready for my match. I yanked my pants down without bothering to unlatch my belt, hitting porcelain like Al Roker hits a plate of brownies: with gusto. I opened the hatch and delivered my payload over the still waters of White Lake, and my sphincter-sense told me it was a grande.
I could tell this was no ordinary chocolate loaf. This was the Dook of Earl.
The resulting tsunami (representing karmic retaliation in favor of the toilet bowl) reached into the heavens to slap my shuddering ass -- I could not avoid being tagged with gator water. There was no immediate relief and rosy after-feeling here; I sat, elbows on my knees, breathing deeply until I felt the all-clear.
Naturally, the next step involved observing the muddy boy I had birthed. So I stood up and gave him a once-over. He looked like a foot-long Swiss cake roll, bobbing merrily with the tide. And this thing was dark. Black enough to have a sense of rhythm. Hell, if it had a few extra inches it coulda been a basketball player.
The battle was through, but at this point my cage had become a haven and I dreaded making my exit. I wiped up with the diner's rough brown toilet paper (the brick had left remarkable little mess) and flushed. The bumpy log rebelled at first but, with the encouragement of a second flush, parted my company. Feeling refreshed beyond words, I meekly unbolted the door and started my swift exit.
Not swift enough. As I passed, a greasy dishwasher quipped, "Want some pie with your sausage?"
To this day, I cannot be sure he was talking to me. I didn't even look back. I just dipped outta there like Rosie O'Donnel confronted with broccoli.