Anyway, it all started with a mild cough. I coughed and I crapped my pants.

What's worse, I was standing on a busy city street in Dallas, Texas. Fortunately, the uninvited load had not seeped out of my underwear yet, but speed was of the essence. I found a posh downtown hotel, waddled to a public men's room, and devised a clever way of dealing with the situation. After I cleaned my ass up, I looked down at the Love Canal in my briefs and took decisive action. I didn't want to leave my dirty drawers in this nice hotel and, frankly, I didn't feel like getting half naked to resolve the problem. So I did what MacGyver probably did when he shit his pants: I pulled out my Swiss Army Knife, cut the away affected area of cloth, and flushed it. Sure, the underwear was ruined -- but it was still attached to my body. Yes, I washed my knife.

After this, sneezing became a fearsome experience. When I felt a sneeze coming on, I would clench my butt -- and the fact that I had serious hay fever made every sneeze a game of anal Russian Roulette. Sometimes my ass went off; other times, I was spared. This routine really took its toll on my underwear expenses. I started carrying an extra set in my car, along with extra pants.

My wife had finally had enough. She told me to either go to the doctor, or she would find a way to keep me from performing minor surgery on my undergarments. As a typical guy, I promptly refused the doctor idea. I could see it now: "Hi, Doc, can you help me not to shit myself like a baby?" Nope, no way, not this kid.

So my spouse came up with another idea. She offered it to me in a roundabout fashion, so I wouldn't go crazy. That night, while sorting the laundry, she stated to me that she'd like to give the Nobel Prize to the person who invented maxi-pads. She went on and on about how they had saved her many embarrassing moments when she had her period. I bet she raved like this for fifteen minutes. Later, as I watched T.V. it hit me what she was trying to tell me.

"No fucking way," I blurted out to her.

"Oh, come on," she said, "it's not like anyone else will know -- and it will save your underwear."

I patiently explained to her that I was a guy, and no self-respecting man will wear a woman's period pad to guard against shit leakage. Nope, not going to happen, not in this lifetime.

The pad was much more comfortable than I thought it would be, and the ones with wings really came in handy. Oh, sure, I was a little self-conscious at first. I kept thinking of that old adage about having to go to the hospital... what would the nurses think? But I got used to them and just -- to let you know, gentle readers -- maxi-pads absorb liquid shit every bit as good as they do blood.

A strange sense of confidence returned to my life.

I lived like this for a year; but on top of regular shitting into maxi-pads, I developed one helluva case of hemorrhoids. Scheduled liquid crapping became unadulterated agony. I usually had to grip something to deal with the pain. Thank God for rails in handicrappers! At home I just braced against the walls.

Once I started walking funny (due to ass pain), I finally broke down and went to see the doctor. After a humiliating colonoscopy, he prescribed something, and in a week, my totally liquid shit began to have a slightly chunky consistency. I was encouraged. Two weeks later, at 7:00 PM on a Tuesday, the power of my bowels compelled me to go squat on the pot. There was no liquid up my butt -- but rather a massive turd.

Oh God -- after a year of nothing but liquid shits, combined with my swollen hemorrhoids, this drug-induced monster felt like it had more karats than the Hope Diamond. Hell, I felt like I was shitting broken glass one shard at a time. Not to mention the fact that I think my asshole shrunk from a year of diarrhea.

I called to my wife and, brave trooper that she is, she let me hold her hand as I eased this bastard out. Her rhythmic chanting of "breathe and push" did nothing to help the situation, but I appreciated the gesture. When the last razor sharp facet cleared my bomb bay doors, I heard a satisfying plop in the water. "Congratulations," my wife yelled, and promptly left me alone to deal with the cleanup.

I looked down in the water at my creation and was shocked to see it was long and normal, without a single rough edge. To paraphrase Shakespeare: the fault, dear Brutus, was not in my shit, but in my asshole. But at this point, I didn't care. I was solid and by God I took a real shit!

I dealt with the glass shits for about two more weeks. Since then, thanks to solid shits and Preparation H, crap time is no longer a harrowing experience. The maxi-pads are once again used strictly by my wife. Although -- it's good to know they're under her sink, just in case.

-- F. Art Gingerly