New Mexico, 2005. It was the day before two of my friends were getting married. The bride's mother was in her glory, housing all the bridesmaids and groomsmen, cooking up a Hispanic storm of her favorite spicy and delicious meals.

The offender: carne adovado.

Apparently this delicacy can be cooked with various kinds of meats ("carne"). The chef chose pork. Said pork is simmered at very low heat overnight in the oven in blast-yer-bung-flavored red chile. By the next morning, all of the red chile (generally a fairly liquidy substance) has been absorbed by the meat of choice.

Couple that with some green chile homefries and a sprinkling of various cheeses, then bundle in a cozy resting place we'll call a "burrito," and you've got my favorite dish ever.

The plan for the day was to have a little breakfast; head to Sandia, one of the nicer golf courses in the area, with the groom and his groomsmen; play eighteen holes of beer-guzzling fun; and then head back to the pad for some pre-wedding conversation.

The plan was going great up until the thirteenth hole. We had already rounded the turn and I had erroneously passed up the chance to use the facilities. (I was drinking. And I'll use that excuse for my lack of judgment on that fateful day.)

Needless to say, the three burritos I ingested for breakfast decided that they'd had enough of my digestive tract and wanted to enjoy the fresh air.

Burritos can be VERY persuasive.

Simultaneously preparing myself mentally to force-wait until I got to the next tee-box to use the provided outhouse, I extracted the driver from my bag. And then realization set in: forcible evacuation was imminent, like it or not.

Even as I butt-clenched and waddled through the saw-grass, I was preparing. Unbuckle the belt, unbutton pants, unzip fly. Though realization was mine, I didn't understand the impact until it was too late.

Krack-a-BOOM!

It didn't matter then, and it certainly doesn't matter now, but there were some folks in our two foursomes who decided, in the parlance of Ron White, that this was a ‘photo-opportunity'. As I called for ass-istance ("Anybody got any shitpaper?"), I realized that these callous bastards were unconcerned for my health and the safety of my soiled rectal area -- all they wanted was to document the event like so many photojournalists on a wildlife safari in Africa. Yes, my ass is in pictures.

After several minutes of ass-vogueing, I was relieved as someone tossed me a roll of toilet paper that they were so kind as to obtain from the outhouse on the next hole. I did my best, but it took an additional five-minutes in said outhouse to truly clean up the greased lightning that struck my sphinctoral well that day.

And yes, the pictures were digital. Some say you can find them on the internet to this day. Let's hope so.