As a sufferer of Irritable Bowel Syndrome, I've endured some pretty embarrassing incidents over the years. So when I travel, I'm vigilant when it comes to knowing that if the two-second warning strikes (that's right -- two seconds!), I've got to be within close proximity to a restroom.
Recently I started dating a woman who, one day, suggested we head to the ocean for the weekend. She is, quite simply, a hottie, and the last thing I want her to know about me at this juncture is that I have IBS. So we headed to the ocean, stopping for a quick bite at a little place known for its pit beef sandwiches. Forty-five minutes later we were heading down Ocean Highway.
"Let's find a spot... that's remote... without a lot of people..." she said, rubbing my thigh. Okee-dokee. That was a green light if there ever was one.
So I was driving like the wind in anticipation of what was sure to be an extremely pleasurable afternoon when, all of a sudden, it hit me: the pit beef sandwich I'd scarfed down was about to ruin my afternoon delight.
I hit the brakes and pulled off to the side. Leaving the engine running, I said, "I'll be right back."
"What's wrong?" she asked after me as I jumped out of the car and ran through some dense brush down towards the sandy beach. Hoping I was out of her line of vision, I squatted, pulled down my shorts, and took a massive dump in a sand dune. Aww, Jesus.
Then I heard the car door slam shut.
"Don't come down here!" I shouted. The last thing in the world I wanted was for her to see me squatting over a pile of shit that looked like black bean soup laced with pit beef and smelled like feta cheese. There are some images you never forget, and I was pretty sure this was one of them.
Like a cat in a litter box, I quickly covered up the evidence, pushing sand over the contents of my colon and what looked like my colon itself as it lay there festering in the hot sun. I wiped my ass with my underwear, and then buried them. Then I walked back to the car.
I tried to play it off as if there was nothing unusual about what I'd done -- pulling over and running like a bat out of hell down to the beach -- but as soon as I got back to the car, she said, "I wanna go home."
You see, this is pretty much the story of my life where women are concerned. I drive two hours with a hot babe, stop for a pit beef sandwich that backs up on me at the worst possible time, and end up taking a dump in a sand dune. Enough said.
