Several years ago I was invited to go camping in a state park with some friends. Never having camped before, I imagined the four of us pitching our tents on a lonely lakeshore and then sitting around in front of a fire we made by rubbing sticks together. Upon arrival at the campground, I learned that our campsite was nothing more than a simple patch of grass near a large brick building which turned out to be the toilets. My friends' idea of camping, apparently, didn't mean experiencing the pleasures of nature by roughing it -- it meant sitting around a fire on what appeared to be a well-kept lawn, next to a modern public restroom complete with shower facilities. The whole idea seemed a rather dubious proposition. I could have pitched a tent in my own backyard and had the same experience.

We did, however, have a cooler overflowing with beer. And with a group of cuties two sites down, I figured things couldn't be all that bad.

It took us several hours to get our stuff set up, mostly because no one wanted to do the actual work. The other three guys stood around discussing the pros and cons of each particular tent placement, and I, well, I kept sneaking off to the can. When we first arrived, I hadn't been pleased to see we were right next to the restrooms. Now I was glad of their proximity; because, for some unknown reason, I had the squirts. Every ten minutes I would hop out of my chair and, with a casual air, saunter my way toward the crapper. It isn't easy faking nonchalance while keeping one's cheeks clenched like a vise; but after numerous trips I became a master.

I wouldn't have minded the ordeal so much if I had been producing something, anything, other than a smelly liquid the consistency of water. I'd heard the phrase "pissing out one's ass" before, but this was the first time I had experienced it firsthand. Each time I took my seat on the throne the floodgates opened, with nary a nugget to stem the flow. I'd wipe, go back to my pals (who were having quite a laugh at my expense by then), drink some water to keep myself hydrated, and begin the cycle anew.

I finally noticed around nine PM that the shits were coming with less frequency. By midnight I had gone almost an hour without setting foot on my well-trod path to the shithouse door.

My buddies eventually decided it was time to get some sleep and headed off to their tents. I was pretty sleepy myself, but after a long day with the runs I was feeling none too fresh. There were showers nearby and I wanted to take full advantage of them, so I grabbed my towel and toiletries and headed inside. The last shower stall had someone's tighty-whities hanging from the hot water knob, so I moved on to the next one. It was already occupied, so I kept on going. I rejected two more showers and was running out of options when I came back to the handicap shower. I hadn't seen any handicapped campers out and about, so I decided this was the one for me. It was larger than the other stalls, and had a sweet detachable showerhead on a flexible hose that I could aim between my cheeks to ensure I was squeaky clean. I hopped inside and turned on the water.

Halfway through my second rendition of Satisfaction, I got that sinking feeling in my gut that told me despite what I previously thought, I had yet to squirt my last. I didn't think it was serious, so I segued into Hotel California and grabbed the soap. A little fart bubble tried to winkle its way through my sphincter, but I knew what could happen and held fast. Pissed that my bowels were ruining my shower, I tossed open the curtain and stalked toward the toilets, shampoo Mohawk and all, only to discover that both toilets were in use. I announced my predicament to the occupants, only to have one of the guys suggest I go shit in the woods. The other guy didn't make a peep, and I knew it was no use trying to wait him out. He'd sit there all night if he had to, just so he could slink out when no one was around.

I went back to my handishower, thinking that by the time I rinsed off and dressed, at least one of the crappers would be available.

Things naturally progressed from bad to worse. The knowledge that a toilet wasn't immediately available threw my body into a psychosomatic fit, and now my need to go was urgent. I left the shower to check the toilets, which were still occupied. I'm not sure why, but I suddenly recalled the Seinfeld episode in which George pees in the shower at the gym. I giggled a little bit and figured what the hell. I wasn't making anything but water anyway. In my best George voice, I cried out, "It's all pipes!" and squatted. I centered my bung over the drain, relaxed, and... uh oh. Instead of water, I had deposited a large pile of mush on the drain.

Unsure how to go about cleaning up the mess, I did the only thing I could think of. I grabbed the detachable showerhead, held it as close to the floor as I could, and did my best to spray the mess down the drain.

It didn't work. All I managed to do was spread shit all over the shower floor.

I gave up.

As I got dressed, I heard a toilet flush. The main door opened and closed. And then I heard the second toilet flush as Mr. Shameful got the hell out too. Bastards.

I grabbed my stuff and headed toward the door, anxious to make my own getaway before someone discovered the craptacular mess I had left. I happened to look down as I passed the changing bench, and there, like a gift from God, were a small pair of flip flops left by some careless kid. Grinning like a fool, I carried them back to the shower and tossed them in -- a red herring for any poop detectives that might come sniffing around. I closed the curtain and walked out of the restroom, away from what was definitely not my finest moment.