Over the course of about a month, I became lactose intolerant. I went from blissfully enjoying all types of foods to living life no further than ten feet from a toilet. Before this experience, I used to think that people were exaggerating when they described lactose intolerance as having an immediate effect on their lives and clothing. I didn't think it was possible to eat cheese and then spray mud just ten minutes later.

My mind was changed one fateful night.

I got out of work around 11:15 PM. I was starving, so I decided to make a stop at McFucker's drive-thru. When I approached the store, I noticed two coach busses in the parking lot. I decided against going there since I figured it would take thirty minutes before I got any service and possibly longer for any food. And anyway, just up the road is Taco Hell.

I love Taco Hell. I ordered a cheesy Gordita crunch, a hard taco, and a chicken burrito supreme. They hooked me up with about twenty packets of fire sauce. I parked and dug in.

Up to this point I'd been able to curb the effects of the lactose intolerance by taking those fast-acting Lactaid tablets with the first bite of dairy foods. I was so famished that I wasn't thinking about the tablets, though, so I gobbled down the taco and the Gordita (with about four packets of sauce apiece), and was reaching for the burrito when it hit me.

My guts instantly pressurized like a shaken soda bottle. I swallowed hard. The Lactaid tablets! Where are they? I desperately searched through my handbag for one or two or ten. None to be found. I turned to my emergency supply in the glove box, flipping it open and grabbing a sheet of four tablets. I chomped them quickly and took a few glugs off the soda to help wash them down.

Then I paused for a moment to consider my options. I knew that the Lactaid tablets would not be very effective at this point -- the damage to the guts was already taking place. And I knew the damage to the seat in my car would be far worse if I didn't act now. I glanced over my shoulder at the restaurant. It appeared the lobby was still open (they close the lobby at midnight), so I carefully jumped out of the car to make my way in for a direct deposit. I was twenty feet away from the door when the lights went out and someone came over to lock the door. I waved to him, but he just shook his head and turned around and went back in the kitchen. OK, Taco Hell, be that way. I'll just turn around and go shit at McFuckers.

But I'd forgotten the busses, and the crowds they surely brought. I'd never get to the toilet in time there! And I'd serve as fodder for a great tale of some woman shitting herself in a McFuckers late at night.

Across the highway is a twenty-four hour convenience store. No problem, I thought, I can wait for the one minute it will take to get over there. Even with the pressure building and the sound effects becoming louder, I still felt confident I'd make it to the gas station to complete the download. I drove over.

I practically lurched out of the car and shuffled, doubled-over, to the door. Neither door would open. I looked in the windows to see if anyone was there to open the door. Then I notice a hand-scribbled note written on a napkin in pencil: "Back in five minutes"

My heart sank as I kept peering into the windows for any sign of life. Where the fuck was the clerk? I pounded on the door, hoping to see him come out of the backroom, fastening up his uniform pants or wiping the coke trails off his face. But he was fucking gone!

I started the car and tore off in the direction of home. I knew there were no stores, restaurants, or gas stations open at this hour from this point on. Worse yet, there would be no place to pull over since we had just received about a foot of snow and all the rest areas and turn-offs were not plowed. It was HOME OR BUST -- or burst, as it may be.

As I began the climb back to the little snowbound hilltown village that I call home, I started to coach my bunghole, to prepare it for the battle, to give it a pep-talk. I was twenty minutes away. I turned on the radio for a little distraction, thinking anything could help me just a little. The very next song played was Wipe Out. I tried my best not to think of the brown metaphor. The next song? Landslide.

Not wanting to press my luck with radio roulette any more, I just hit play on the CD player. Mr. Shitwit has been on a Rush kick lately, so we had a greatest hits in the player. We are always making up our own parodies to songs, and Rush is one of the bands I'd come up with a little brown humor for. Under ANY other circumstances, I'd be giggling and singing my own words, doing my worst impression of Geddy Lee; but tonight was the exception. I just gripped the wheel, panted, and tried to think of anything else but my shit-laced lyrics. I thought of Bunga Din, our Canadian pooper friend, and wondered what he'd think of the shituation, if he had a passenger side seat for the show. Aside from being upset that I was soiling his beloved Rush (I assume, since he's Canadian, that he loves Rush) and gagging on the escaping gas pockets, he'd probably be laughing his ass off at my expense.

Then the hallucinations commenced. I swear I saw Santa's sleigh fly high overhead. Then I saw reindeer in the road. Then I thought the sun was already coming up. Then I thought there really was a passenger in my front seat.

I really needed a drink, since my mouth was suddenly dry, but I didn't dare loosen my grip on the wheel for fear that I'd lose my grip on my sphincter as well. My leg, butt, and face muscles ached. This muscle group hadn't been worked this hard since natural childbirth six months earlier! I started humming along to the music, praying I wouldn't get pulled over for speeding.

I turned off one highway and onto a smaller highway, just five minutes from home. I began to feel the quivering in my bunghole get more intense. It took too much effort to downshift the car, so I took the corner as quickly as I dared while still in fifth gear. I stood on the gas pedal, now nearly in tears. By the time I passed the high school, I was breaking the speed limit again.

The high school is one of our local cop's favorite late night speed traps. I normally NEVER speed there at that hour. Tonight I gambled that he would not be waiting for me. And I won that gamble -- but would I be so lucky with my ass?

I turned onto the side streets, making another sweeping, speeding turn, sliding slightly on the loose sand from last night's snow treatment. The little village of houses that line this street are a quaint collection of old New England homes straight off a postcard. The locals don't care for people traveling too fast on their charming lane, so sometimes the local cop likes to hang out by the library, too. Sure enough, I ripped past the cruiser doing double the speed limit.

My heart stopped beating for a few seconds as I waited for the lights to come on. I kept driving as fast as I could, since I was busted anyway -- I was hoping that the closer I got to the house, the less time I'd have to sit in the car neck-deep in foul feces.

The poo Gods smiled upon me: the lights never came on. The cop may not have even been in it.

I turned onto my road, squirming and moaning in my seat. I took the turn into the driveway on two wheels and came to an abrupt halt, shutting the car off, flinging the door open, and rolling out of the car while it was still moving. Yanking my foot off the clutch made the engine turn over again, and the car hopped toward the snowbank without a driver in it. Thankfully, it didn't move more than five feet before stalling out.

I threw the front door open and bolted up the stairs. The bathroom was straight ahead. My jeans were unbuttoned and unzipped and I had a grip on the top of my jeans and underwear, ready to yank it all down and plunk on the throne all in one swift motion. I had just turned my ass around and began to lower it when my bunghole released its cargo.

I was right about the consistency: a semi-solid plug, followed by hot molten liquishit. The fecal blast left my body in one quick sploosh, leaving in its wake a horrendous cramp in my colon and the sound of a handful of mud thrown at the bowl from a height of ten feet.

I sat for a moment, shaking and sweating, just relieved to have made it all the way home with my clothes unsoiled. I cleaned up as best I could before going back to the car, backing it out of the snowbank, and closing the door that I'd left wide open.

Then, giddy with victory, I jumped into bed, woke up Mr.Shitwit, and told him all about it. He mumbled, half asleep: "Don't tell me. Just put it on PoopReport."