I hope that at least some of the guys (and girls) reading the previous two stories of how my perfect day (involving a walk in the park, a Trans Am, a lovely Mexican snack, and an impending date with a beautiful Italian woman named Laura for later that night) had suddenly turned to a most-unfortunate series of humiliations involving a forgotten physical, no boxers, an encounter with some skinhead crackers, Popeye's Shack diarrhea, dropping trousers in front a female doctor, and meeting the woman of my dreams while dressed in an outfit that hinted at a possible late-night encounter with a Goodwill dumpster.

No doubt that nobody from that particular office would EVER buy another Chrysler product while armed with the information the I was being hired to build cars for the Plymouth folks.

I do not want to be graphic in any way. But the little event was not reaching its pinnacle while I heard the words, "Turn your head and cough." I don't know what percentage of you folks have ever had diarrhea from a fast food greasedump, but coughing while you are in the grip of such an event is NOT something that sounds like a great idea. Add jumping, sneezing, and laughing to that and there ya' have it.

Repeat: I do not want to be graphic. I am being serious when I talk about a George Costanza issue called "shrinkage." It is like Murphy's Law, and it happens to men while jumping into cold bodies of water and at doctor's offices. But there seemed to be quite a bit in the sense of female "sharing" of private patient details at this office, and I started to be concerned that Sally was going to hear about Little Chuckie. I don't believe in premarital sex. But in order to get married and HAVE sex, you might want to not have a medical professional warning the woman you love about a shrinkage problem. Permanent, or in other misfortune.

As I belted out a pretend cough, the doctor squeezed my business. Would this ever come to an end? I did not have any crotch issues, so I was told to get dressed and that I was free to leave.

Doctor Lady scampered from that room like Shelley Duvall from Jack Nicholson in The Shining. I sat on the table. Then pulled on the khakis and made for the exit. As I turned down the hall, I locked eyeballs with Sally.

All thoughts of Italian Laura suddenly were gone. I was smitten.

"Hope ya feel better," said Sally. What a woman!

I wanted to make another download quickly. So I headed for the Pontiac Trans Am with my tail between my crotch.

Uh oh. Reaching for the shiny GM key, I realized that I had left the keys in the car. Locked. I was locked out of my car! And I needed a toilet.

No way I was going back into that office. So I thanked myself for leaving the T-top open, and I pushed and pulled myself to the car roof and begin to lower myself in, feet first.

Unfortunately, I fell on to the stick shift and almost injured myself.

Feeling resourceful, I started her up and took a final peek toward the office; and there was Sally, looking and pointing at Chucky making another ass of himself. I had somehow managed to put on another show for the entire staff, gathered around Doctor Lady, laughing, staring, and wondering how I had survived the gene pool.

The sound of the motor starting up was glorious, and I burned rubber out of there in the hunt for another potty.

Part four coming soon.