A buddy of mine (we will call him "Bob") and I were both studying for our post grad degrees in a fine suthrin' insta-toot-shun a few years back. We were both avid partiers, working and playing as hard as we could due to the stress of the degree thing. When summer hit, after the semester ended, the entire lab would promptly leave town for "the field." As we were field biologist-types, we would spend weeks collecting small creatures for study in remote, highly wooded areas, many of which encompassed 'dry-counties'. Now a dry county, for ya'll Yankee types, is a rather large geographic area wherein no alcohol sales are allowed, period. No bars, no chicks at bars, nothing. Needless to say, the summer field season was a bit of a drag.

So Bob and I decided we would just tear it up the night before we left, to make up for lost time later. Between us we probably drank about a case and a half of Bud and ate nothing but peanuts and garlic fries for an entire day and night of grad-school release. We did pontificate, albeit briefly, on the putative consequences of our diet early in the day's festivities -- however, with each sweet ounce of golden nectar (and I think a few shots of Jager) we soon lost track of the dastardly diet we had downed. By two AM we stumbled to our respective domiciles and retired, to get up at five.

You see, at five AM we all had to meet at the school parking lot to group up with other labs/students in these big-red school vans that seat 10-12 people. We also neglected to fathom 1) how many people we would be traveling with; 2) the nature of those students (all Shameful Shitters, serious church going types); and 3) the duration of the drive to the first collecting spot -- a 2.5 hour journey to the bowels of hell.

We were both badly hung over, and we got rancid looks from everyone upon entering the red van and taking our seats far in the back. Our first stop was the traditional last store on the drive, where everyone bought sodas, snacks, etc. The old timers all bought hot 'n spicy pork rinds to consume, as it is a tradition on these sorts of trips. What can I say, Bob is a hardcore trooper -- he ate about two bags of pork rinds.

My first indication of impending disaster was the familiar "brick-em-broww, rowww-rowww" of my belly announcing its evil intentions to the occupants of the red van. Bob just looked at me and snickered, fully aware of my plight. Little did he realize revenge would be mine by day's end. About half an hour before the first collecting stop, my bowels were doing the loose-lucy and notifying Houston of major problems. The pain became intolerable. I was so damn hung over I could not decide if I would puke or shit my drawers right there in the van. I wriggled my ass like Dantario on Dance Fever, 'cept my fever was brown, baby, all brown.

Bob just snickered his ass into laughter, leaving every one of the stodgy bastards in the van wondering what in the sam-heck was a' transpirin' back in the bowels of the van. Finally Bob took pity on me and handed me his water bottle, which apparently contained some remedy for my current shit-u-ation. I drank heartily, and quickly realized it was beer. Now my hangover was being weaned but my butt was in a sling. I unbuckled my belt a notch.

We hit the last gas station on the freeway, since the girls were peeing as girls do. I pushed past everyone in an effort to reach the sliding van door. Seconds counted. Cap'n Sphincter was about to give up the ship. All was lost. I could hear the WWII submarine war siren everywhere -- AA-UU-GAH! AA-UU-GAH! Didn't anyone else hear it?

I was the first to hit the loo, and I hit it like a runaway freight train. I shut the door in one student's face, ignored his hrrmph, and hit the can. My legs trembled and sweat was pouring from my brow. I quickly got in a football stance with my arse facing the toilet, or so I thought. Thick, frothy, yellow-brown, bile-filled spray shot all over the toilet frame proper, the wall, and even part of the sink. Peanuts and pooper-jacks for all, peanuts, get yer' peanuts here, I shouted, laughing my ass off. Hell, it sounded like a beluga whale in mating season had escaped the sea-park and was now in the gas station.

I realized I only had seconds to clean up, as there were people in line. Next came the knock on the door. Shit -- they will know it was ME in there. I quickly suited back up, and exited the can, and said very loudly, "Be careful, someone made a big mess in there!" Everyone just stared at me with vacant, glazed eyes. I got back in the van, and there was Bob in the back, scarfing more pork-rinds.

The kid in front of me kept grumbling about some spray or something all over the bathroom, but no one heeded him. It was quiet in the van. Bob asked me loudly if I still had diarrhea and was I OK, which, of course, made all heads turn and frown at me. They knew. Yep, it was I. "Crap," I thought. "There are professors here and everything." I slunk down in my seat and just waited until we hit the collecting trails.

Finally we made it to the woods. People were everywhere. Mom and Pop types, kids in tow, the whole enchilada. This was unusual -- we were used to not having so many folks on the wooded trails. Usually shitting in the woods is the best, unless there are people in the way.

Seems the ol' pork rinds hit Bob's belly a bit harder than he thought. I knew something was up when he just jetted down the trail. Apparently he was trying to shake loose from some curious folks, wondering what we were doing staring at the trees and brush like some freaks. As it happened, he had to shit -- I knew it. Ah, the wily bastard, he who laughs last laughs best.

I missed the first part of the frothy festivities but caught up to him in a nearby stream -- bare-ass naked and desperately trying to rinse his clothes off. "What the hell are you doing?" I inquired. Well, it seems the back door pressure was building up, so he ran some feet of the trail (to avoid the gaze of onlookers) and dropped trou -- only to discover that his Eye That Stinks wasn't waiting for clothing removal. He shat a stream of liquid magma all into his drawers, down his legs, even on his shirt.

There he was, slightly off trail, pants dropped, covered in sticky hot shit. Mind you, the temperature outside was about 99 degrees with the humidity. The shit gods laughed. So here comes a female ranger down trail, eying him suspiciously. "Is everything OK?" she asks. Bob told me he told her he was fine, just to leave him alone. Curiously, she did not, and walked towards him in the brush -- only to discover a half-dressed person covered in shit! Apparently she didn't say a word, and just walked away.

So I left him alone in the stream, and had the last laugh as we piled into the big red van at day's end. Everyone wanted to know why he was soaking wet, but we both just laughed so damn hard we started crying. Needless to say, everyone looked at us cross-eyed for the remainder of our tenure at school. The drive home was rather odiferous, I might add.

-- Wufchuffer