One fateful night a couple weeks ago, my fiancé and I went out to eat at our local Coney Island. For those of you not familiar with Detroit-area cuisine, a Coney Island is a small diner that serves Greek food, standard diner fare, and Coney Dogs-- hot dogs with beanless chili, mustard, and onion.

As we scanned our menus, I noticed one of my all-time favorites: fish and chips. I proceeded to order the meal, which included a Diet Pepsi, chicken lemon rice soup, and corn. A few minutes and one cigarette later, our food arrived. To my excitement, an unholy amount of food was placed before me, including an entire dinner plate loaded with fries, three unbelievably huge pieces of beer-battered, deep-fried cod, a large bowl of soup, and what appeared to be an entire can of corn. Appeasing my love of food and trusting my extremely powerful metabolism, I proceeded to happily turn the entire meal into nothing but a memory.

As the night rolled on, I eventually began to feel the familiar rumblings of a perfect storm brewing in my innards. As a soldier, I've had my fair share of meals that sought revenge; but this one would be the most dastardly of them all.

First came the rumblings, which my fiancé found rather comical. But soon, as we trekked through Wal-Mart, the rumblings began to make their way out through my pressure-release valve in loud, highly-audible bursts, which prompted us to turn around and head home before the main event arrived.

But, alas, it was too late. As we reached the main door, I felt the inevitable red alert of a full-scale missile crisis. I headed right for the nearby public restrooms. Without a second to spare, I quickly ducked into the closest open stall and got my pants all the way down.

And just before I sat down, I saw TURDS!

Turds on the toilet seat! And they were not my doing!

Without no time to spare, with my pants still around my ankles, I scurried to the next stall and dropped anchor. The echoing toilet bowl was a veritable symphony with five-part tuba harmony.

As I finished my nightly deposit -- which was huge, even by my standards, which are legendary -- I found one problem: not one single square of paper. With no other options visible, with my pants still around my ankles, I wound up shuffling to the other stall to commandeer an adequate supply and finish up my paperwork.

I finally pulled up my pants, washed up, and walked out. My fiancé was outside wondering if I was all right. Once she heard my story, she had, without a doubt, the best laugh of her life.