My first tale on PoopReport involved the state of Texas and a young liberal named Beatrice driving a vegetable oil-running hybrid. This one involves the state of Massachusetts, a young less-liberal girl named Trish, and a large motor home running on premium Iraqi black gold.

We were on the freeway, heading for last weekend's Patriots game against the New York Jets! This had all happened very suddenly indeed. Trish's dad, some Wall Street bigwig with clients in Boston, had gotten the tickets because the client had to attend a funeral. Then Trish's dad and stepmom had to go to Cleveland to visit Trish's grandma. So the night before the big game, in walks Trish with two tickets! I was so excited I couldn't sleep.

As you know, I'm a Connecticut boy by way of Texas (where I was ostracized by the entire tiny town) now attending a swanky New England private college. I don't have a car, so Trish had to drive the one she keeps parked on the extreme edge of campus: a 1989 Buick Electra with no hubcaps or shocks. The car sways up and down like a turtle trying to float in Keith Richard's stomach.

So, suddenly the highway turns into a parking lot, and now we're creeping along like Kevin Federline's career. That's when I see a motor home to my right, and a window with a big moon face looking out of it. He looked like Dwight K. Schrute from The Office. I point at the face and Trish says, "I think he's going to the bathroom."

I hadn't thought of that, although it was an odd position and angle for a human face to be staring out from -- from the bottom half of the motor home. Then I think of PoopReport and begin to wonder if I can wrangle a story out of this. I aspire to be like Dung Daddy, with an ongoing series of amusing tales spanning a lifetime of pooping... but I have a long way to go.

Then Trish busts out laughing. Apparently, Moon-Face-Boy has made eye contact with the lovely Trish (she is always being told that she looks somewhat like Jennifer Connelly). I push myself back in the seat of the hulking Buick so that Moon-Face-Boy and Trish can carry on some sort of primitive sign language between the two cars.

"Ask him to roll down that window," instructs Trish.

I feel like the troll in the middle of some kind of television taping -- Beauty and the Freak -- but I obey Trish's orders and shout across the lane of traffic at Moon-Face-Boy. "ROLL... DOWN... THE... WINDOW...!" I holler, and then follow it up with a turning motion with my right hand. Surely, if he can't hear me, he can at least understand the sign language.

Moon-Face-Boy apparently understands our inquiries. He pulls his face away from the window, taps on it with his hand, and then makes a slashing motion: no dice. The window either can't or won't open.

Then Trish barks, "Ask him if he's on the pot."

Suddenly I'm beginning to suspect that I'm about to make an unwelcome appearance on some cruel television show. I just know that Ashton Kutcher is going to jump out of some hidden compartment under the back seat of the Buick and tell us, "YOU'RE PRANK'D!" or whatever he screams out. But then again, we're not exactly celebrities. In fact, anyone watching us drive by in that hulking wreck must think that we're escaping Appalachia in search of work at an interstate truck stop.

I look over and get ready to shout Trish's request when Moon-Face-Boy beats me to the punch. His bloated young-Homer Simpson-like head disappears from the porthole, and then suddenly a large roll of toilet paper appear in the window. Then Moon-Face-Boy's pie hole appears at the porthole again, twisted into a devilish grin.

This is the coolest thing that has ever happened to him.

Suddenly we hear a honking horn at our rear. In carrying out this little melodrama, Trish is holding up faster-lane traffic behind us, and they're starting to get pissed off.

"You better speed up," I instruct Trish.

"NO WAY!" says Trish. Suddenly I like this girl much better than the loathsome Beatrice, that brownosed Texas hottie who served in a soup kitchen only because she wanted to get extra credit.

Looking back at Moon-Face-Boy again, he suddenly starts holding up various items to the window. First a toothbrush. Then a pair of white men's underwear.

"Ewwwwwwwwww," says Trish. "He's in there without his shorts on!"

That may be true, I think. But then I come up with one of my patented snappy comebacks. "Well, since there's no ventilation in there, it's probably recommended by the folks at Winnebago."

Trish gives me a funny look. My joke is not nearly as entertaining as the spectacle in the next lane.

When I look back again, Trish has inched forward toward the front of the motor home. Two sets of eyes are peering back at us from the front captain's chairs. It must be Moon-Face-Boy's parents. They are truly two of the fattest and oddest-looking human beings that I have ever laid eyes on.

"Oh my gosh," Trish says under her breath. Dad, a man who has the face of a rhinoceros that has just been beaten with a mallet, looks over and smiles. I again sit back in the seat of the Buick so Trish can see the man that spawned Moon-Face-Boy. When Daddio gets a good look at the lovely Trish, he licks his chops as if he has just seen Sharon Stone jump out of a cake at the State Farm Insurance seminar in the Cabana Room at the Best Western Newark.

"Ewwwwwwwwww," says Trish again. She knows a lascivious look when she sees it; and the thought of that guy finding Trish suddenly attractive makes both of our stomachs churn.

I decide to chance another snappy comment. (As you know by now, I love trying to make witty comments, but often fall flat on my face.) "It's a good thing that he made it out of Chernobyl alive"

Trish gives me a funny look. I think it went over her head.

Trish again slows down, and again we hear a horn tooting for us to speed up. But she has to get one more look at Moon-Face-Boy.

He's not at the porthole.

Then a window at the rear of the motor home pops open. It doesn't open completely, but we can see Moon-Face-Boy trying to push something out the window.

"I hope it's the shorts, and not the toilet paper," I say, but Trish doesn't even hear me. She's become fascinated with this freak, and probably can't wait to call her girlfriends in a few minutes to relate this strange college road trip tale.

Suddenly, we see what Moon-Face-Boy is shoving out the window. It's a Jets baseball cap. He is holding it up proudly, as if he is the welcoming committee from the Navajo tribe trying to make peace with the white man. I start laughing and prop myself as far out the window of the Buick as I feel comfortable, proudly hold up my Dallas Cowboys cap for everyone on the road to see.

Now the guy in the truck behind us is beeping again, and Moon-Face-Boy is giving us a dirty look through the larger window. When he starts to shove something else through the window, Trish speeds up and passes the motor home, and leaves the little melodrama behind.

"I wanted to see what he was going to pass through that window!" I say.

"I have the feeling that it was going to be truly disgusting," replies Trish. And then, as predicted, she fires up the Cingular and starts calling girlfriends to tell the Tale of Moon-Face-Boy to her sorority sisters. When we got back to campus, we were famous.

I must close with this remark: you should never wear a Cowboys cap to a Patriots game.