Bro, been there, done that. I recall a dive restaurant (a cafe with bugs big enough to saddle and ride, but cheap, good food) -- their bathroom never saw a mop ever before. Not until I had my date with it.

After battling a serious bout of tummy grumbles (food poisoning from my girlfriend's meatloaf), I got to feeling like my old self again. I went down to this restaurant for my first good meal in forty-eight hours, give or take. I picked something really easy on the gut: two boiled eggs, sausage, bacon, and a cheese biscuit. Simple, utilitarian.

Got in there, started eating, and felt a little something knock on my butt's door wanting out. I took a sprint to the toidy, which smelled like a never-washed whorehouse on the top floor of a bait shop in July in Africa. It was one of those singular-style shitters: a room with the amenities. No multiple stalls -- it was a classic room, toilet, sink, and door, all of which helped in locking the stank in with me. But I was in a tight spot, as it was a good half mile anywhere else, and I didn't have time.

I dropped my jeans and drawers and began to begin. But before I could permit the flow from the rear, I had a much more serious issue. The smell had triggered an extremely acute case of "get the fuck out of my way because I am about to puke like a professional eater after the oyster-eating contest".

The sink was too high and too far away for me to heave into it like a gentleman, so I hopped off the toilet, pivoted, and took my toilet praying position, pants around my ankles, ass pointed firmly at the door. Once I began my little heave, I noticed an old problem: if I am about to take a dump and I barf, I still poop anyways. Funny under some conditions. Not funny in this particular one.

It began with a thunderous fart. I recall hearing the toilet paper holder's little steel cover rattling. Then the flow began.

Unfortunately, the dump which I was uncontrollably letting was not at all what I had expected or hope for. A couple of turds, firm, solid -- I could just don toilet paper gloves and put them in the pot. But one cannot solve having sprayed watery shit all over a commercial size toidy door, from hinge to latch and from sill to top, with toilet paper.

And that is precisely what I'd just done. Apparently my heaving had caused my upper body to lurch down and then back up, which basically turned my butt into a large, stink-filled Super Soaker.

I did the only honorable thing I could. I donated nearly an entire roll of toilet paper (all that was in the room) to cleaning up my splattered cheeks. Half a roll moistened, the other half to dry.

My jeans and drawers made it out clean, amazingly. I got everything put back on in the proper order, walked out with a dignified look on my face, paid off my chow, and left. The mess still left in the room.

To whomever had the bad luck to clean that bathroom: sorry about it. My bad. Shit happens. And, as you could tell, it did in there.