I recently went away for four days to an event near Mammoth Lakes, California. While I was there, I decided to stop by my favorite place, the CO2 tree kill at Horseshoe Lake. The city of Mammoth has finally decided to pave the crumbling, crappy-ass road going up to the Lakes Basin, so there was a flagger holding up traffic for twenty minutes both ways while they dug up some of the pavement.

This was fine. It was only 12:30 and Mom's doctor appointment (conveniently scheduled while we were in the area) wasn't until three. We took a trip to the gassed-out lake and returned to wait in a line of cars for the next twenty minutes. The wait actually wasn't that bad -- everyone shut off their engines to enjoy the mountain air.

Suddenly I heard this disturbance coming from the front of the line, about four cars down. Some jackass in a giant red pick-up truck stuck his head out the window and shouted at the work crew. "Come on," he moaned. "Hurry up!"

A few minutes later, the head returned. "GO!!!!!"

After a few more minutes of this, we discussed how impatient some yuppie jerks could be. I mean, come on! We're in some of the most beautiful scenery in the Sierras and this guy was in some huge hurry to speed down the mountain in his gas guzzler.

"HURRY UP, MAN," he suddenly yelped. "I'VE GOTTA TAKE A SHIT!!!"

Gilbert and I busted up laughing. So did the carload of college guys behind us. The guy in the truck turned around to glare at us. Then his head disappeared again.

Another five minutes passed. I suspected the construction crew just left him sitting there to see what would happen next.

And they were rewarded with quite a show. The man suddenly opened the door of his truck and bolted into the bed, where he kept a large contractor's tool chest. He proceeded to frantically tear apart the tool chest until he found a small bucket. We watched him duck down into the back of his truck as he rapidly dropped his pants.

By now the college guys behind us were laughing hysterically, with tears streaming down their cheeks. Their fists pounding on car doors echoed across the mountains, and so did this poor guy's diarrhea concerto. He fired off a few percussion bombs and then sheepishly disappeared back inside his truck. What became of the bucket remains a mystery.

Gilbert thought about it for a moment and then wondered aloud: what would happen when the guy reached the potholed portion of the road? Did he leave the bucket in the back of the truck to tip on the first pothole, or did he actually secure it somewhere? Suddenly we both busted up, joining the college kids. The guy in the truck must have heard us -- I'm sure he was certainly bright red by now.

The minute he got away from the flaggers, he disappeared down a side road leading off the main highway in a screaming hurry. I'm guessing he was desperate for an outhouse again.