The year was 1999. The turn of the millennium was just around the corner and the world seemed swollen in anticipation of some mysterious eruption. Little did I know, on that beautiful fall day, that I was due for a major eruption of my own.

As the late afternoon rumbles of hunger awakened my animal desire for food, it was decided that the family would get some exercise and walk the fifteen blocks to El Maguey. The Mexican invasion had recently hit Missouri full tilt, with one of the more positive side effects being the Tex-Mex restaurants that popped up in every strip mall. We strapped shoes on the kids and headed toward our greasy destination.

"Hot plate! Hot plate!" cautioned the waiter as he slid the steaming dishes to their places next to the empty basket that once held chips but now cradled only a crumpled sheet of grease-spotted wax paper. As I hastily doused my chicken chimichanga with what remained of the tiny pitcher of salsa, I wondered to myself if "Hot plate!" was the first phrase taught to illegal Mexican immigrants after their nighttime baptism in the Rio Grande.

Having finished our dinner and finding ourselves sufficiently stuffed, we started the long journey home, hoping to burn off some of the recently ingested Mexican fuel. Six blocks into our hike, I felt a familiar and unfriendly twinge of pain in my lower abdomen. The cool breeze that augmented this near-perfect evening made me acutely aware of the beads of sweat on my upper lip and brow. As the caged beast in my gut began to stir, readying for its violent escape, I quickly took stock of the situation.

I needed to find refuge and find it fast. We were deep in the heart of a residential neighborhood and at least eight blocks from the dream of my own toilet. "Just knock on a door," thought my frightened cerebrum. But what would I say? "Hi, I know we haven't met but my name is Mark and I really need to shit. Do you mind if I paint your toilet brown while my wife and kids play on your lawn?"

I decided to try and make it home. With two kids, four and five years old, fast travel was not an option. I was running out of time. I quickly blurted, "Daddy's going to crap his pants. See you at home," and waddled ahead like a scalded penguin, pinching my butt cheeks for dear life.

The giggles and jeers from my children faded behind me as I pulled away. I was doing all right, shuddering with the rhythmic ebb and flow of abdominal cramps. The contractions were becoming more frequent. Only four blocks to go.

The sun was nearly gone and the earth was in the final throes of dusk. I was almost to the entrance of Columbia Country Club, which is marked by a lighted sign surrounded by several bushes and clumps of tall elephant grass. It was then that the mother of all poop-cramps grabbed me by the back of the neck and demanded submission. "Yes, Master," I said as I shuffled into the delicate landscaping and yanked down my shorts.

The caustic flow came so fast and so ferociously that I feared that I had not dropped my pants in time. The power of the warm soft blast nearly pushed me forward from my crouched position. RELIEF! God, it felt good. I crouched there with my elbows on my knees, able to breath for the first time in several anxious minutes. A cool chill raced up my spine. I felt the glow of a job well done, the timeless relief of a powerful bowel movement. I had transcended. I had communed with my ancestors. It must have felt much the same eons ago as my prehistoric ancestor ran through the forest clutching his spear and noticed that familiar twinge of pain.

"Hey, I see Daddy's butt!" The sound of a child's voice snapped me back to reality. I looked to my right and saw the silhouette of a woman and two children. My children. Headlights! I quickly realized that my shiny white ass was hanging out of the bushes, reflecting in all its glory for every passerby that drove the busy street just ten feet away.

I quickly pushed my way deeper in the bushes and away from the blast zone. I skinned off one sock and then the other. It was a two-socker. I left my socks just feet away from my beastly deposit as a gift for the Mexican landscaper who would tend the area the next day. Fitting revenge for the meal his countryman had served me.

My wife and kids could not contain their laughter, but I felt like a million bucks. I floated home on rubbery legs, breathing the cool evening air. Something had happened to me there next to that clump of elephant grass. I was transformed. Right there in the bright headlights, I had touched something that transcends time and space.

I shit, therefore I am.