I was coming back into town on the Greyhound when it hit. Unfortunately I was only a few minutes from the station and I didn't dare go on the bus, not just because of the obvious reason but for fear of being somewhere in Vermont by the time I got done. I figured that I'm a big boy and the station is only a half-mile or so from my house; I'd just pucker up the red eye and hope for the best.

The first quarter mile was relatively uneventful, which makes absolute sense considering that's where all the public restrooms would have been. But now the colon demons came back with a vengeance comparable to Stalin's treatment of Berlin. I stopped in my tracks. Sweat beaded on my forehead. I nervously glanced around for any place that was in any way secluded and came up with only three options: 1) the Post Office, 2) an elementary school, and 3) a graveyard. I was faced with Federal Prison, being labeled a child offender, or pooping on the dead. I was stuck. I determined to carry on and just hope I didn't shit myself.

It took me about 15 minutes to get to my street. I had had to stop a half dozen times for repuckering, but I had made to within six houses of my destination without soiling either myself or some local landmark that could earn me jail time.

Then I got to the house full of college kids three houses away from mine. Now I have to tell you, these folks absolutely cannot be bothered to clear their sidewalk. There I was, 150 feet away from porcelain absolution, and I am faced with yet another impossible dilemma: cross the icy sidewalk knowing full well even a minute slip would burst the dam; somehow get over the four foot snow bank and out into the street; or back-track to the last driveway, losing 30 seconds I didn't have.

So I did what any man in my situation would have done. I started yelling at the top of my lungs helpful phrases such as, "You useless cocksuckers!" and "You fucking lazy pricks!", and somehow managed to roll myself over the snow bank and into the street -- imagine the way high jumpers go over the bar, but slow and with stomach pain.

With no time to spare, I navigated the remaining yardage and with Herculean effort lumbered up the three steps to my door. I flung the door open, threw my bag down, shed my jacket and lunged at the bathroom door. I dropped trou, raised the seat, and made bowl fall in one swift move. And then the deluge was upon me -- a good 15 seconds of stellar gas and Greek Fire. Knowing it wasn't finished, I firmly held my ground and then twice experienced something new. You know that heave before you puke? Well, this was a little lower and in reverse.

When I was satisfied that it was safe to leave the throne, I went out to clean up the jetsam I had left in the hall. Yep, there was my bag, and my jacket and my keys... still in the open door. Now I'm the scary man in the neighborhood that yells obscenities and has funny noises emanating from his house.

-- Ed [1]