She wants a lock for the door, and I don't get that. Why, so she can barricade herself in there? However, I'd prefer some kind of deodorizer. What can we do?

In the midst of this living horror is a small charity working with local students called Youth 2 Youth. To help prevent their students from getting cholera, they are doing exactly what we want YOU to do: they're celebrating World Toilet Day today.

World Toilet Day was created in 2001 by the World Toilet Organization to raise awareness for a subject everyone finds embarrassing. But our embarrassment prevents us from facing the problem: 2.5 billion people around the world have no access to sanitation. And, 1.8 million people, mostly children, die every year from diseases like cholera or simple diarrhea. To help them, it's time for you to get over your shyness.

This year's World Toilet Day celebration can be the biggest yet -- if people like you join people like Zimbabwe's Youth 2 Youth in celebrating it.

Today, November 19, World Toilet Day events are taking place all over the world. India has the most events scheduled by a single country, and will feature creative activities like the Beautiful Toilet contest by the Vasantham Trust. Ahead of World Toilet Day, they will visit schools and discuss the importance of keeping toilets clean. And will return on World Toilet Day to award certificates for the most beautifully maintained toilets.

While there is a serious side to why we celebrate World Toilet Day, sometimes humor is needed to break down our inhibitions. That is precisely what is happening in London where Pump Aid and the National Union of Students are partnering for a night of comedy called "It's not a taboo, it's just poo!"

But the biggest event is one that's sure to generate media coverage -- and it's the easiest thing you can do to participate. We call it The Big Squat: a movement for the toilet-less. (Editor's note: we already talked about this.)

Here's what's going to happen: today, November 19, in workplaces, busy locations and universities around the world, groups of people are going to stop and squat. For one minute. Stop, drop and squat. And then they'll explain to everyone who notices them why they're squatting -- and what can be done to solve the problem of sanitation. Big Squats are being planned in places ranging from McGill University in Montreal, a mall in central Singapore, and a big public high school in California -- and more Squat Squads are forming every day.

In fact, pictures have already started to come in to our Big Squat Flickr group.

In Zimbabwe, Youth 2 Youth will be teaching students about importance of proper sanitation and handwashing through activities such as poetry writing, performing plays, drawing competitions and concerts. They are teaching kids who live in fear of cholera every day that the disease can be prevented -- if only people talk about toilets.

The countdown to World Toilet Day has begun. Join us to make a difference! Visit our website and find a Squat Squad today!

This high tech, stainless steel turd dispenser can flush efficiently using only one gallon of water. Considering that one inmate will often flush up to thirty times a day with old style three-to-five gallon hoppers, the new design will create a huge saving on water use.

Unlike most people, a prison inmate uses the prison toilet to flush away more things than just human waste. They are a multi-tasking device: ashtray; contraband dispenser; even soft drink cooler with the pan being flushed from time to time to keep the cans nice and cool.

Prisons are looking to save money and energy, so as Steve Connaughton, product manager for a toilet valve manufacturer said, “The time for this toilet has come.”

Mr. Murphy recently showed off his baby at several trade shows pointing out the pan`s various features, including a reseal cylinder and an opening in the front of the bowl from which air and then water jets out to break up even the most stubborn fecal matter. His party trick is flushing thirty-five golf balls down the tubes in one go.

At the end of the demonstration, Murphy raised his head with pride and commented, “I`ve got the best job in the building.”

He oversees the cashiers for a living. He's the Cashier Manager, that's all. He asks for nothing from you in return. (Well, maybe there's just one thing he asks, but we'll get to that in a minute.) He just wants to help guests in the store and send them home happy. He wants to earn his pay check and go home to watch TV – he’s a simple guy. It's not glamorous, but it's a good life. He's happy.

Until last Saturday night...

He came into the operator's room where I was busy answering phones and updating team member computer files.

"They pooped!"

There was a longer than usual silence as several team members and team leaders who were milling about the time clocks looked at him with big eyes and open mouths. His face was blank and his skin was extra pale.

"They pooped!" he repeated, "They stole something, and stuffed the
packaging into the toilet. It's all on top of the poop!" I think he was in shock. He shook his head slightly to-and-fro in a small gesture of negativity as if to wipe whatever he’d seen from his memory. He then left the operator's room to consult others in what to do about it.

Meanwhile, I’d finally gotten my dinner break. I left the area, went through the break room, and walked out into the store. I was heading over to the candy aisle when I saw the store manager. She was in disbelief. I asked her what was going on.

She and another manager had just kicked a bunch of people out of the store who were running through the store and breaking things. Hmm...

Back in the break room I was retelling the story of the Men's room turd terrorism when another team member told us that he’d heard lots of slamming and ruckus in the rest room earlier. He thought the two incidences were related.

The next day at work I asked the cashier manager who had to clean up the restroom. He said did, and that he’d used a double set of plastic gloves, stuffed all the packaging into the trash can and covered it with paper towels.

Can you Sherlocks figure it out? What is that one thing I’d previously mentioned that the Cashier Manager asked for?

I drove like a madman to make it to school

So that I could get rid of this uncomfortable stool.

This test was important; I needed to focus,

which would be near impossible with a gut full of locusts.

I found a close spot in which to park the car.

Still, the math building was distant, so incredibly far.

I squeezed my ass tightly and away I did waddle,

Not stopping for traffic, there was no time to dawdle.

I pushed through the entrance and then down a hall,

Knowing that round the next corner I could let loose nature's call.

I hurried and scurried and then pushed through the door.

But something was different, of this I was sure.

The change there was palpable, of this there's no doubt.

But then from my ass a noisy fart did ring out.

I ran for the stall and checked out the seat,

Dropped trou, copped a squat, and let go of the heat.

While setting and purging and pushing and stinking,

My mind re-engaged and once more started thinking.

"There's something not right, of this I am sure.

Because I remember the urinals near by to the door.

O'er there should be urinals, of this I will vouch.

But now they are gone and now there's a couch.

The sinks on the wall should be over here.

Something's not right; no, something's gone queer.

I do not recall recently seeing a sign

That they would remodel this oasis of mine.

And that's when it hit me, my heart flush with gloom -

The realization that this was the Women's restroom.

That neatly explained why the urinals were gone

And all was so dainty, all so lacking brawn.

As quickly I could, I cleaned up my ass,

And tried not to panic before going to class.

I snapped up my pants before any could see

That big heavy belt that was wrapped around me.

I stood up and cracked the bathroom stall's door,

And cautiously looked over the Girls' bathroom floor.

I gathered my backpack and looked forward to see

That I'd gotten lucky, there was no one but me.

I said a quick prayer and peaked out once more

To make sure one no was between me and the door.

I took a deep breath and bolted from there.

In five giant bounds, I'd no time to spare,

I grabbed the curved handle, planted firmly in hand,

And flung it wide open, ran through as I planned.

And stood in the hallway, heart beating in breast,

Because now I could go and take that damned test.

While walking away, it came with a rush

That in my great haste, I'd forgotten to flush.

The only place for me to get water was the punchbowl shelter. Since I was up on the ridgeline water was pretty hard to come by, and this was my only option. My mouth was already dry -y like I just smoked a huge joint, my spit was white as snow, and I was sweating like crazy. When I came around the bend I noticed a pond. I prayed that that wasn’t the water source, but it was. Those bastards at the hiking club tried to make it seem like the water was flowing by piping a little stream from it, but I knew it was going to be bad news.

I filled up my two Nalgenes, added a little extra iodine to their contents, shook them up and waited twenty minutes, and then I said fuck it and chugged one liter. It tasted like I was gargling a newt in my mouth, but the water was so quenching I didn’t really mind it. I re-filled my liter and kept hiking.

Two days went by without any repercussions. I took a twenty-four hour break in a small town after a very intense hiking day (thirty-seven miles in less than fourteen miles) and watched shitty TV and drank even shittier beer. I awoke the next day and hit the trail; at this point it had been four days since I drank from the punchbowl. When I came to the first incline I realized I felt a little weak, and my neck was a little stiff. It felt like I wanted to crack it, but I couldn’t.

Every time I get sick my neck gets stiff. And while I knew that, all I could think of were miles. I had turned into a mile slave and forgot why I was really hiking to begin with.

It took me all day to hike only 10 miles, a feat which normally takes me about four hours; so I called it an early day and unpacked. I made my instant mashed potatoes and wrote in my journal, like
I do every night. With the remaining sunlight I read the shelter journal.

For the past week people were complaining of problem bears rummaging around the shelter for scrap food and climbing trees to get into people's food. They were also saying that they had seen a four to five foot-long black snake slithering around the shelter. Oh, fuck my life, I thought to myself. Here I was ten miles away from civilization feeling like shit, with known bears and snakes surrounding me - in the middle of the woods alone.

The sun had set completely and I was trying to fall asleep, when
I felt this piercing pain in my gut. I tried to ignore it but it kept
getting worse. I was farting, but I knew it wasn't going to stay that way for long. Frantically scrambling to find my headlamp, my
Croc’s, and my zip lock bag of TP, I ran as fast as I could - in the pitch black of the woods - to the privy, clutching my gut in pain.

When i got to the privy I was horrified at what I found. This outhouse was literally full of shit. There were about six inches to spare between by ass cheeks and hundreds of people’s poo. I ripped off my pants and started shitting before my ass even touched the seat.

I felt the spray of my shit and most likely everyone else's shit
come flying back up at me. If you can imagine the consistency of cottage cheese coming out of a pressure washer, then you can imagine that’s what I was going through.

I wiped the thick brown mucus off of my ass, cleaned myself up, and limped back to the shelter. Then I crawled into my sleeping bag only to do this yet again.

It was when the shit attacks were finally over and I was finally about to get some relief and fall back asleep when I heard the
bear. The over powering smell of musk made me want to throw up. I could hear him trying to get my food, and this went out for about an hour before I finally passed out from sheer exhaustion and terror.

I awoke the next morning feeling a little better. I ate a light breakfast and slowly continued my journey. A mile or two later, though, I felt that familiar feeling in my stomach. It got worse and worse until I couldn’t bare it any more. I tossed off my pack and shit right then and there. It wasn’t until about mid shit that I realized I’d used all of my TP the night before, and leaves weren’t going to do the job; so I sacrificed a sock. I go by the
leave no trace rules: pack out what you pack in. So, use your
imagination there.

My ass was itching like hell because I had just wiped my ass with a wool sock, and I was sicker than a dog. I started to think back at what could have made me this sick… it was the water at the punchbowl shelter. That’s when I started to get worried. I knew I had giardia...beaver fever, hiker shits, whatever you call it. Diarrhea in the woods is no joke; the lack of electrolytes coupled with dehydration can become pretty serious. I finished my ten mile day in agony and hitch-hiked to a town where I rested and shit my brains out for the next three days. I still look back on that time and wonder how I made it out alive.

It turns out I’d been infected with Cryptosporidia, which is very similiar to Giardia but doesn’t require a stool sample to diagnose. I just had to let it play its role on my stomach. And boy did it.

I had wasted enough time, as by then it was an hour and a half until class started, and the commute to school was a twenty minute drive. I was now going to do what I always did before class - shit, shower and shave. I had earned the reputation of being a shitting enthusiast by my family and close friends. My mom always made fun of me for bringing reading material and music into the bathroom to do my business.

What is my simple explanation for all of this? Some people do yoga, I shit. So when it’s time for me to shit it’s not just a function of necessity, it's a learning experience - a moment of reflection and meditation. If you understand this then you'll understand the delight I felt when I was done with my tedious activities that morning and looked at the clock; there was still time for my version of what a poop should be. I still had enough time to poop on my own terms and effectively clean up for the day ahead.

I gathered my supplies for the spiritual ceremony of purging the brown filth from my body. I carefully chose which book to read, which cd to listen to, and then what clothes I'd wear. All of which are selections that depend on mood and timing and are very crucial to the overall experience of my morning crap. I'd already selected my clothes and had them on the bed, and the book I desired was in hand. I was about to decide which cd was to have the honor of being that day’s soundtrack to my indulgence when a primal awareness silenced all thought and stopped all movement... something had happened, something dirty.

Apparently while I was deep in thought deciding if Explosions In The Sky or Beck's Sea Change album was be spinning in the cd player, I had neglected a tugging feeling in my bowels. A migrant had slipped through the cracks and sprinted free like a prisoner who'd dug his way out of prison. It was only when the shit had escaped that my attention shifted to a more basic focus: forget preparing for the shit, the shit is here.

I should mention that when I prepare for my ritual I’m stripped to my boxers. This helps me make my decisions quicker because my parents keep the house pretty cold.

I only did this when they weren't home.

I should also mention that I had been battling diarrhea for a few months due to being out in the heat a lot and eating poor diet. So I was not dealing with a cork turd but a pudding-like texture which was not as unified as a classic turd, but one of more of a loose confederacy.

I stood there, still, as if I'd only imagined I had just shit myself. "I hadn't shit myself since I was in diapers. I mean, skidmarks don't count, do they?" I thought. Then I began to feel the prematurely-ejected sludge migrating further down. It was making a break for it. I threw down the cd player (no harm done) and grabbed the legs of my boxer shorts, taking up the slack and holding them to my body. I hoped to prevent the sludge from being expelled in a room not meant for bathroom function. I then ran as fast as a man could while holding boxer short legs to the bathroom across the hall.

I removed the soiled boxers and finished the rest of my pudding poop. Phil Cosby would have been so proud; however, my therapeutic poop was ruined. I had neglected to make the best of it with a book or music as I sat in silence, fearing another situation could occur again later that day. I finally finished and felt brave enough to try to wipe and finish the morning in stride; but as those of you who've shit yourself as adults know, wiping becomes a job that requires more than tact and consideration than normally when you shit yourself. Smearing occurs, and the area and circumference of the area needed to be wiped is larger. This means more toilet paper and more time.

After seven minutes of wiping with my mom's cheap, thin toilet paper, I then made a vain attempt to wipe out the seat of the boxers - my mom did my laundry. I considered throwing them away to avoid the embarrassment, but they were one of my favorite pairs.

I was about to make the trip back to my room for the clothes - sans the boxers, of course - when I heard someone come in the back door. My mom had just come home from the bank and grocery shopping. I then faced a dilemma that I was not prepared for. Did I:

- tell my mom I shit myself and be severely embarrassed as I ask her to hand me my clothes?

- risk darting across the hall and back when she went to her room?

- wait till she goes on the back porch to smoke?

I chose the third option and waited nearly twenty minutes before hearing the back door open and shut. I quickly got the clothes and decided to risk the possibility of being outed as a pants pooper when I deposited the underwear into the dirty clothes hamper. I rolled the Brown dice; what the heck. It was probably going to be a couple days before she would do the laundry, and I cleaned them out fairly well. I then hurried to shower because I was now behind schedule.

When my mom returned from her smoke break she started doing laundry. I finished dressing and such after showering, and I was hurrying toward the back door to leave for class, when she pulled the soiled boxers from my dirty clothes basket and was immediately aware of a stench. Because the laundry room was located immediately inside the back door, she was blocking my escape. Her face morphed into a variety of positions as she investigated the stench as one might a terrible wine. She stood there with my dirty drawers and looked at me, then to my boxers, then at me again. She began to speak but stopped; maybe she was sorting her mind for information as to the owner of the boxers. Was it my brother, or was it me?

She then looked at me again after confirmation.

"Did you shit yourself?"

I looked at the boxers and said, "Yeah, and it cost me over half an hour. I'm late!" I then darted out the door with damp hair, into the Indian summer air, ashamed but too busy to wallow in it.

So, when I discovered I could painlessly chew toast, I gorged myself on all the cultural delights that I had been missing out on, and I'm fairly sure I skipped the oatmeal and apples. I'm otherwise very good about a balanced diet, but my exuberance took over. After eating this way for three days my appetite was satisfied, and I returned to my regularly balanced diet. However, all was not well down below, as I would soon discover.

Five days ago I sat down to have myself a big, satisfying poop... and I was horrified to discover that I was attempting to poop out something massive and possibly made of steel. Like I mentioned before, my innards had spoiled me, and so I just sat there dumbfounded for a while. I tried a few weak pushes, but the girth of my colon creature startled me, and so I just clenched up and quit.

The next morning, I was certain that I'd loosen up after my coffee and cigarette. Wrong. I attempted to go multiple times but was so intimidated by my freak-poop that I kept quitting and promising my anus, "Tomorrow". Last night, bloating and pressure forced me to waddle to my local drug store and purchase some products that would help me declare war on this monstrosity. I drank a generous mouthful of Milk of Magnesia, confident that I'd wake up this morning and be able to have a heavenly poop; I envisioned a soft glow of light surrounding my butt, harps and that gentle chorus of singing Angels.

But there were no Angels, there was just the demon poop. And he wasn't going to budge.

My insides were grumbling, churning and cramping. I Googled, I Yahoo Answer'd, and I asked my best friend, but nothing enlightened me... until I stumbled on to this website. I read horrifying tales of constipation and manual disimpaction. I had been informed. I was ready. Stone-faced and dreading this endeavor, I carried a few gloves and some lube into the bathroom. I sat down, figuring I'd give it one last chance to come the hell out before I forced it out. I mentally reasoned, pleaded with God, Satan and my poop. Still seated on the throne, I set my jaw and snapped on a pair of gloves.

And it was then, while I was uncapped the lube, that my colon lurched and I felt a wave of heat... this might be my chance. So I leaned forward, clenching the bottle of lube with my gloved hands, and gave the mightiest push I have ever had to summon. Hot coals, battery acid, gang-butt-rape, anal rape by orcas... the sensation was horrifying. I kept pushing, unsure of what unholy shit was making its way out of me.

It seemed to go on forever but I just kept on pushing. Finally, it was over with a KER-PLUNK. I had inadvertently squeezed all of the lube onto the floor during this ordeal, but I barely noticed. I just sat there, unsure if I could bear to stand up, let alone wipe. Finally, I witnessed what my one hundred and twenty-pound frame had created... an unbelievably thick piece of shit. It was the diameter and shape of a soda can. To thank my insides for sparing me the experience of a manual disimpaction, I promptly made a bowl of Maple oatmeal and savored each bite, giving my belly a little pat.

"Good effort, guys!”

As I entered the birthing room I saw King Poo

He had a 3" girth

I could see that he had been

Struggling for some time

to get out of the bowl.

I took a picture without asking,

not the first thing

I usually do

in an emergency.

"I came to go two,"

I said to King Poo.

He was too exhausted to respond.

I went to the clerk and showed the picture of distress

And asked if the room could be put out of service

In respect of King Poo's privacy.

I have sent the picture of king poo to friends and
Admirers of great accomplishment.

Earlier this week I had to go to do some work at a different job site the first thing in the morning. Instead of being over by the White House where my office is located, this site is down by the Capitol, not far from Union Station. So, on the train ride over, a guy probably in his mid-thirties or early-forties got on the train and started talking to no one in particular. He made too much noise for me to concentrate on my newspaper, so I decided to listen to him for a while. After listening to him ramble, it was obvious that he was having a conversation with somebody else: however, his conversation partner was not within the visible spectrum and may not have even been within our own spatial frame of existence. Within a matter of a couple of minutes, he had worked himself up into quite the lather about how he was a second class citizen, which may be true; but he didn't seem like a dangerous second class citizen, just a delusional one. Fortunately he got off the train after a few stations.

I got off at the Judiciary Square station which is by the DC Courthouse. The path from the station to this other office takes me past the Mitch Snyder Homeless Shelter, which is the biggest homeless shelter in DC. It’s located at 2nd and D Street NW.

Across D Street from the homeless shelter, this woman in her late-thirties or early-fifties had set up her camp. Why she just didn't go to the homeless shelter, I can't say. I suppose that she was sane enough to know that she needed the support that the shelter's services could provide but was insane enough to think that life in a cardboard box by a major highway was preferable. She made her shelter the traffic light switching box by covering some shopping carts and cardboard boxes with a plastic construction tarp. In spite of its proximity to a couple of major federal and municipal office buildings, the local authorities hadn't shooed her off as a security risk.

So, I approached the homeless shelter along D Street minding my own business, catty-corner to the homeless woman's makeshift bungalow. The light turned green for the traffic exiting from I-395 onto 2nd Street, and the homeless lady started crossing D Street with the traffic. When she was about halfway across, I noticed that she was carrying a piece of cardboard in one hand as if she was carrying a tray. From where I was standing, I could see that there was something on the tray, but I couldn't make out exactly what it was. The traffic light changed while she was in the intersection, so I crossed while the woman was still making her way across the. I got to the corner first.

The lady finished crossing the street and passed within a couple of feet of me, and that was when I realized that she had a large pile of freshly laid shit on the cardboard tray. And how, pray tell, did I know that it was freshly laid? Because it was still glistening! Fortunately, I was far enough away that I couldn't smell it. Or maybe I was so in shock by seeing a homeless person sporting a tray of dookage, crossing a street in the shadows of several major federal and municipal office buildings that my olfactory senses shut down. In any case, I'm glad that I didn't have to smell it.

She walked past me, went to a municipal trashcan in front of the homeless shelter and dumped the shit into it. Note, she didn't throw the cardboard tray into the trash can - she just dumped the shit into it. She then tucked the piece of cardboard up under her arm and started back to the corner. Yes, it was the same piece of cardboard on which she had carried her crap, and no, I don't know whether the crap side was against her upper arm or her rib cage. All I know is that the damned cardboard was tucked under her arm in much the same way that I might absently tuck my newspaper there. Fortunately at this point the traffic light had changed, so I crossed the street before she could get back to the corner. (I had to cross over to her hovel's side of the street.) I made it a point to get away from there as quickly as possible without looking back.

I was surprised by these two obviously mentally-ill people, although I probably shouldn't have been. DC seems to have more than its fair share of homeless. They take over the sheltered sidewalk in front of my building around sunset, but they're usually gone by the time the office 'droids start to arrive in the morning. The single largest homeless feeding operation occurs not too far from my office over by the Veteran's Affairs building at McPherson Square.

I suppose that day was a 'Meds Optional' morning but somebody just forgot to tell me. If they had told me, I might have taken my own.

Underwear serves a vital function in all societies. People walk around farting all the time. If they didn’t have on any underwear, they would end up with little brown strips in the seat of all their clothes.

I have a nephew that needs to burn his underwear. They look like he has been wearing them since the Depression. He has farted in those things so much they are damn near black and will not get white again, no matter how much bleach is poured on them. I folded his wash for him one day and could not believe what I saw. Now, the boy makes good money at his job, so it’s not like he can’t afford a new pack of tightie-whities, he just won’t replace them.

I was at his house one night and he let rip with this enormous fart that shook the floor. A couple minutes later he did it again, then again. I then understood why his underwear was in such bad shape.

But even for us normal farters, the dreaded brown strip will appear at one time or another; nobody is perfect. You just have to know when you have to fart and when you have to take a shit. Thankfully, I have never been in a position that I have not been able to find a restroom when needed. But, I have talked with a few people who did invariably shit their pants. Try as I might not to, I always ended up laughing uproariously and pissing the person off.

People who shit their pants never think it’s funny. I think it’s funny as hell. I figure that someday, if I live long enough, I will get old and shit my pants too; and I think I will still laugh about it. But for the present time, I need only concern myself with keeping my underwear spot free and smelling good. Speaking of smelling good: One could always chew pine needles. That way when you fart, it would smell like you shit a Christmas tree!

I was carpooling back to school in Michigan, specifically to the Upper Peninsula, with some friends and their dog. Along the way, we stopped at an outlet mall and then decided to and grab Taco Bell. Well, not long after ingesting some pintos and cheese, I felt a massive rumble in my lower regions. Shortly thereafter we passed a sign stating that the next rest area was just a few miles away. I was sweating a little, but I told my friend to keep on driving because I thought I could make it.

What was I thinking? Did I really think I could make it to the Upper Peninsula?

Yes, I did, and on we went.

The following sign said that the next rest area was forty-four miles away, and I immediately thought, “Oh, crap. We shoulda’ stopped...” You must all know what happened at this point. I began sweating and cramping, and in a panic, I begged for my friend to pull over. All the while her dog was getting in my face because he was so excited that I was so excited... and then...

I crapped myself. Of course I crapped myself - what else would I do with a stomach full of Taco Bell, no restroom in sight, and a wound-up, large dog jumping all over me?

Because I didn't want to ruin my friend's car, I got on my hands and knees right there in the back seat. And this was when the dog got a whiff of the situation. All hell broke loose.

He was an eighty pound chocolate lab, and he tried his best to get at my butt. Meanwhile, my friend driving the car was apologizing for not being able to pull over, and her boyfriend at the time started harassing me for losing it in my pants.

My friend pulled off the interstate at the next exit, which happened to be a small town; but since it was Sunday, nothing was open. I ended up running into the woods to poo a little more and try to clean myself up. (I had to use three t-shirts and some underwear.) It wasn’t until we had driven about ten miles away on I-75 that I realized, while cleaning myself up, that I’d put my shoes on top of the car and forgot to grab them afterward. We had to drive back to the exit. By the time we arrived back to where I’d cleaned up, the sun had gone down.

As we were retracing our steps down that lonely, two-lane road, we saw a minivan pulled over on the other side of the road. in the beam of the headlights I saw an older gentleman stooping over to pick up my shoes where they had fallen off the car. I started banging on the window, yelling, "Those are my shoes!" I jumped out of the back seat and just grabbed them out of the man's hands. All I could say was, "Those are my shoes."

Finally in possession of all my gear, we headed back to the highway, and at the next rest area I washed my poopy pants in the women's toilet.