My wife and I decided to drive over to Miami to visit Santa's Enchanted Forest, a kitschy perennial carnival featuring millions of lights in the trees along the main path. We enjoyed all the sights, sounds and most of the smells. Carnival food has been both a bane and a feature for me since I can remember, so part of the plan was to satisfy our urges for some of our favorite forbidden foods. The fat supersaturated, foot-long corn dog was probably not a good idea, nor was the fully-loaded, one pound steak and cheese sandwich. Nor was the butter-drenched fresh corn-on-the-cob, nor the large order of grease-covered french fries. We washed everything down with copious amounts of Coke.

My first sign of a pending doom began as a kick in the gut cramp that let me know the Devil would be knocking at my door tonight. An immediate cold sweat broke out on my face, as I hurried my pace and focused on the memory of the closest public toilet. I was visited twice more by breath-taking abdominal spasms. The first one felt like a panicked wild boar was dashing about in my bowels looking for an exit; the last one made me stop walking, focus glassy-eyed on the nearest winking light display, and breathe in a pant-puff pattern as if I were about to give birth in public without the aid of a midwife. Finally arriving at the tiny trailer portajohn, I climbed the steep stairs holding onto the handrail like a weak-kneed feeble codger. The cramped quarters inside combined with the unnatural lean and bouncing of the axle sprung tow-behind trailer john added both claustrophobia and seasickness to an already unbearable situation.

Finding a microscopic stall available, I locked and unloaded. The turtle was demanding to be let out, though apparently it had died six days earlier during its trip through me. The commode was smaller than an airliner's and was the travel type; it required you to pull up on the floor level handle to trickle water into the bowl before pushing down on the same lever to uncork the bottom, which allowed the contents to be released. Had I been orbiting the earth in zero G, the first grogan-laden blast would have rocketed me off the bowl to bounce around the cockpit with the force of an Apollo mission Saturn 5 booster. The fact that I hadn't had time to inspect the toilet seat in the dim light and discovered only by sitting that there had been a complete even coat of clear fluid on its upper surface actually worked to my advantage in that it helped to form a sort of suction gasket which kept my ass glued to the stool.

My second beef stew spew had needle accurate pressure cleaner abilities that immediately vaporized on contact with the waterless commode bottom, sending a tear-inducing crowd-controlling waft of fumes that displaced all air in the tiny trailer. I began to notice a lot less activity outside of my cubicle.

Either the stench was so overpowering that no one could stand to be in the same area, or they were actually dropping like flies with their flies still open, waiting to be swept away by the next custodial shift. After several more volleys I realized that I was alone in the entire trailer. Finally, someone came in simultaneously spraying air freshener and anti-bacterial surface cleaner in the general direction of my stall while audibly gagging in disbelief.

With the demons temporarily calmed, I cleaned up as best as possible. I knew I'd have to face the crowd upon exit, but I had the survivable knowledge that I was from out of town and no one knew me. As I exited, there was a line all the way up the narrow stairs waiting to get in, yet no one had entered while my stall was occupied. The stares of horror would have made a voyeuristic serial killer proud as he observed unknown his scene of carnage. But the devil wasn't through with me yet.

While driving back we stopped at the next rest area, and I went round two. The facilities were nearly virgin by comparison. Although the cramps and force of the gushers were less than round one, the stench had reached a new plateau. I nearly passed out from the overpowering retch until another patron entered the stall next to me and actually said, and I'm not making any of this up, "DUDE! How about a courtesy flush!" He sounded like Tom Arnold in Austin Powers. Three power flushes later we could both breathe again.

I exited as a weak and spent contender, unable to even drive. On the way back, I dreamed fitfully of the blissful shower I would enjoy upon arriving at home.