I had been in Toledo all day, a good forty-five minutes from home, still dressed in my slacks, shirt, and tie from morning church. When early evening came, I had some free time after dinner and decided to stop out for a drink at my favorite local hangout. This place was small but cozy, and the old barn timbers and country music from the jukebox lent a relaxed and informal atmosphere. The rudimentary Men's facility consisted of a narrow room with a urinal on the wall, plus one seldom-used stall at the end that didn't have a door. The door to the Men's room itself was usually propped fully ajar, also, pretty much clinching any notions one might have of actually using the Men's room for any sit-down functions. I was pretty sure that even a good fart in that room probably would soon have pervaded the entire establishment.
Not too many people were present yet at this early-ish hour of the day, but I bought a beer; and before long I found myself having a good conversation with an attractive creature who, to my pleasant surprise, was acting quite interested in me. About this time, I began to become increasingly aware of a building pressure within myself. It was the kind of pressure where I had to work pretty hard to keep from farting as the intensity would build and surge, before finally subsiding with a low rumble deep in my gut. The pressure was continually mounting, becoming more and more difficult to handle calmly, and finally I realized something needed to be done. I thought to step outside momentarily, where I could blow off some steam and prevent a fart from happening in a much more public and embarrassing way. Barely managing to even keep a friendly smile on my face amid the building torture threatening me from within, I set my beer down on the bar and told the barkeep and my new acquaintance I'd be back in a minute.
Trying to keep everything going (or maybe I should say, from going...) according to plan, I stepped out the door and walked over alongside my car for the planned, discreet pressure relief. Finally allowing my pucker a long-awaited chance to unclench, I paused and allowed an anticipated, blissful release. To my horror, that small bit of noxious warning gas was immediately followed by a complete, uncontrollable, volcanic eruption of most of my lower G.I. tract into my pants. I stood beside my car shuddering in horror and disbelief at what was happening while I marinated, helplessly, in my own mess.
With any hopes of scoring a win with the lovely creature in the bar now suddenly quite distant from my thoughts, and my abandoned beer still on the bar and becoming warmer by the minute, I had no choice but to get into my car and sit down with a warm goosh that spread the damage to whatever few places that hadn't yet been fouled during the initial mass exit. I tried not to think of my fabric upholstery as I began the considerable drive home.
On the way out of town, I pondered how I might get at least some partial relief from my diarr...uh...dire situation. I thought about walking into a gas-station convenience store to use the bathroom and clean up a bit, but this seemed out of the question since I'd be walking in with obviously-damp dress slacks and most likely leaving a very stinky trail behind myself as I walked. I wound up seeking out a dark neighborhood street (which was difficult to find) where I parked on the side of the road. I squatted down between two trees in someone's front yard to finish what little bit that remained of the evening's previous business. With no good means of clean-up available, I grabbed a few handfuls of nearby leaves from the ground and wiped up enough of the disaster so that I felt only slightly better about the conditions in my shorts. It was then was time to get back in my car, which was quite fragrant by then, and drive the rest of the way home.
When I arrived at my house, I barged rapidly in through the front door and headed directly downstairs to the laundry room. My roommate was nearby and said, "What's going on?" By then I had already removed my dress slacks, noting the Dry Clean Only label inside, and was busy stuffing them into the washing machine as it filled. "I shit myself!" I barked, much to his stifled amusement. Just as there wasn't a chance of using a public restroom on the way home, after the horse (should I say, "turtle?") was already out, I didn't see how I could possibly walk into a Chinese laundry somewhere and hand them a pair of fully-loaded dress slacks to pollute their dry-cleaning machines.
Luckily, the dress slacks survived the incident unscathed, and I still think about that evening when I see them hanging in my closet. Friends have said they would've thrown the slacks away, but some things just have too many memories attached to them.
