A couple summers ago, my wife and I took a week-long trip to the beach in Destin, Florida, with another couple. I generally eat pretty healthy, but since I was on vacation I decided that it was time to splurge a little. Every meal I ate was some combination of cheeseburgers, fries, pizza, fried shrimp, and beer. Mainly beer.

On the third day of our vacation, I had some doughnuts for breakfast and drank a couple beers. I then packed the cooler with an assortment of Budweiser and Miller MGD, and we all headed down to the beach for a day of fun in the sun.

It was around eleven a.m. by the time we situated ourselves in a nice spot and were able to kick back in some beach chairs. Probably as a result of my new greasy, cheese-filled, artery clogging diet, I felt a twinge in my stomach. I choose to ignore it and instead cracked open another beer and snacked on some Oreos. The disturbance in my belly subsided for the time being, but another five beers and fifteen Oreos later it made a ferocious comeback; whatever was going on in my intestines meant business.

I was confident this time that the disturbance meant to stay and at best gave myself five minutes before things took a turn for the worse. I had to take action quickly, and I had to make a quick decision as to that action: poop in the ocean, or run back to the condo to poop. I scanned the beach area and decided against pooping in the ocean; there were too many people around, and the gulf coast water was so clear that there would be no hiding the brown cloud likely to follow. It was going to have to be the condo.

The walk back to the room would take about three minutes, so I grabbed the room key and walked quickly as well as nervously. The pressure quickly built in my bowels but didn't feel solid, so there was nothing to hold onto.

I made it to the elevator. "Whew, only one more minute and I'll be there," I thought, "but wait, are we in room 609 or 909?" I couldn’t remember what floor our room was on, and it wasn’t on the key.

I hit the sixth floor button and danced around the whole ride up. Even though I tried to hold it in I was feeling increasingly less confident that I would get to the right room in time. I got out on the sixth floor.

All the floors look exactly the same with nothing at all to differentiate them. I walk as quickly as possible to room 609, inserted the key, and turned it.

Nothing. Dammit! Wrong floor!

Back toward the elevator I went, but by now it had gone to a different floor; so I wait another thirty seconds or so for it to get back to my floor. Those thirty seconds felt like thirty minutes. I got in and rode up to the ninth floor in a panic. When the door opened, I headed straight to room 909. As I inserted the key I could feel my pulse in my butthole, it was so intense. I was losing the battle.

And the flood gates involuntarily opened.

I was literally ten feet from my bathroom, turning the key, as I lost the battle. Lucky for me, I was wearing swim trunks with the built in lining, so I ended up waddling into the room with huge load of muddy poop dangling in my bathing suit. I took them off in the bathroom, turned them inside out, and deposit an enormous mudball into the toilet. After flushing, I felt it also necessary to swish my shorts around in the toilet water to get the poo out of them. Then I rinsed them and myself off in the shower, because I couldn’t go back to the beach wearing different shorts. I’d have to explain what happened.

The possible conversation played out in my head. "Dude, why did you change?"

"I uh, well uh, decided I don't like those other shorts."

"You crapped yourself didn't you?"

sigh... “Yeah."