It was a bumpy flight from Washington D.C., and down through the clouds we came. Silicon Valley came into view and I saw the Pacific shimmering in the distance. My boss was taking me on my first sales trip and I was extremely nervous. On the outside I looked OK in my navy blue Donna Karan pinstripe. But on the inside, I consisted of: worries; at least eight cups of coffee (three on the plane); and a bran muffin that tasted like a diseased circus monkey. The coffee and muffin were swirling around worse than a pufferfish in an inflamed colon.

I was just about to get up and make my way back to the crap closet when I heard the little ding. The captain had turned on the final seat belt warning. Everyone must be in their seats. Even the attendants were buckling in.

I adjusted in my seat and a dangerous little fart squirted out. This was no ordinary fart -- it felt like the first explosion of lava before a mighty volcano eruption. That dang muffin!

I pressed both halves of my ding as hard as I dared and felt the next rush of steaming javadung surrender. Elvis definitely wanted to leave the building. But I wasn't about to let him out now.

We finally landed and I felt better. I smiled. False alarm. My boss and I made it to the car rental counter and we both rented cars. He'd need his own, as he had business in Frisco later; but I'd return my car and fly home alone later that night. The plan was for me to follow him in his Lexus. I had a Ford Taurus. I knew where I stood in the pecking order.

We were late. He told me to stay close behind him. He knew the best route. It was only a short ten-minute drive.

Ten minutes later, we were sitting in a huge traffic jam. Dead stop. His car was four cars ahead of mine. I'd never seen anything like this, even in Washington. Not even one lane was open. People were getting out of their cars and talking. My boss got out of his and walked back. "I heard a tractor trailer is jackknifed up ahead. Might be awhile. I'll go back to my car and call ahead and let them know we might be stuck here."

Meanwhile, Elvis was kicking and screaming again. A giant mass of molten toxic bubbling stew sluice was trickling between my ding.

I pivoted in the Taurus seat and took in my surroundings. I knew I had no more than four minutes before the sluice made its curtain call. Where was a Winnebago when you needed one? There were only big trucks. Did they have bathrooms in those things? I doubted it. But I got out of the car anyway. What was there to lose at this point?

The burning was so awful that I had to walk like someone tossed a Jart in my ass. I must have looked like someone who snipped off a hemorrhoid and sprayed kerosene on it.

The trucker appeared quite happy to see me. "Hey darlin'. Having trouble?"

I smiled like a harmless puppy, but I felt like a Doberman with a broken syringe in its butt. "Don't guess you got a restroom in that big truck?"

"We got a couple things for emergencies. A pee bottle -- however, I don't reckon that would help you much -- and a bucket for other situations." He pronounced the word situation like "silitations."

Once again, a bubbling vat of bat java singed my escape hatch. I had about two minutes until eject mode. There wasn't a sliver of pride or civility left in my body. I weighed my choices: I could either scramble up into the filthy truck, or go back to the car and squirt.

"If I use your truck, could I have some privacy?"

He tumbled out of the rig like a hungry walrus. He was huge. His belly was so big he had to wear suspenders; the slogan on his t-shirt said, "Got Milk?"

He told me the bucket was sitting on the floor, and to go on up and help myself.

I know what you are thinking. A well-dressed lady in designer clothing getting into a hillbilly wagon seems farfetched. But in the words of my Uncle Angus: when you gotta go, you gotta go.

The truck was covered in junk food. Candy wrappers, potato chips, Coke cans, maps, pens, clothes. I found the bucket. There was little time to decide on a technique. Reaching down, I ripped off my drawers and then squatted like a sick bear. The dignity of starting slowly was long gone.

What actually happened must have scared the hillbilly still standing next to the truck. Have you ever put a cucumber in a blender and set the knob to nine? I've never ever felt so relieved in my entire existence. I think bucket pooping is highly under appreciated. I would, however, strongly endorse a quite grander bucket; but the mechanics of the operation aren't difficult.

I was done in eight seconds. No more needed to expunge itself. Finding some tissues, I filled up the bucket and got my drawers back on. I also found a plastic bag, into which I placed the bucket. Then I went toward the driver's door and glanced out.

To this day, I am not sure which was worse -- expecting to see only the hillbilly, suddenly the aristocratic mug of my superior came into view! The two were out there talking! How was I going to explain this?!?

I put the bag of crap on the floor and opened the door.

The hillbilly had explained the situation to my superior, and they both just wanted to make sure I was going to make it.

The only thing I was able to say was, "When you gotta go, you gotta go."

They both laughed about it, but it was the most awful thing that has ever happened in my twenty-five years. We never even made it to the meeting. It took three hours before they got the road open, so my boss told me to take the rental and fly back.

When I got home, I took a shower and then a bath, and tried to wash the sordid ordeal out of my memory. The incident was never brought up again. However, my boss did refer to it one time during a meeting. Getting up and excusing himself from the boardroom, he turned to me and said, "Might you excuse me just a moment? When you gotta go, you gotta go!!"

-- Paige