I swear that crapping is not only legendary within the Army, but it is actually like an Olympic event. So as a soldier, I have PLENTY of stories involving turds of all varieties.

A couple years ago, for instance, I was deployed to the Middle East. As anyone traveler knows, a minor stomach bug that barely affects the locals will tear a foreigner's ass apart! Unfortunately for myself and a few others in my unit, one of those bugs made its way into our area and we all got sicker than all hell.

I had gone through an entire day, including a three-hour convoy (good thing it didn't hit then!), without feeling a thing. I went to bed that night like I did on other night. Then, at some awful-ass hour, I awoke to the all-too-familiar rumbling and gurgling: the painful alarm of a massive imminent attack of the screaming shits.

Although our base had amenities that many didn't (such as flush toilets), our large apartment-style barracks had a row of porta-johns for night use -- the flush toilets were quite a walk, and they weren't worth the trip unless you were heading for the showers in the same area. Still, living on the third floor of the barracks meant having to walk down all those agonizing stairs, out the door, and another two hundred meters to the shitters.

As I made it down one floor, it started to make its assault. I moved as quickly as possible down the next set of stairs to the ground floor and made a beeline for the door. As I reached the door, I realized that I wouldn't make it to my destination. I quickly went to Plan B: figure out what to do.

I remembered a small bunker next to our barracks which was supposed to be used for cover in case of a mortar attack. Walking the familiar clenched-cheek penguin waddle that we've all done in these cases, I scurried over and proceeded to drop shorts and cover the inside of the bunker in shite. After several rounds of spraying while watching for any late-night showering troops that might walk by, I was finally finished. And then I realized one thing: I had nothing to clean myself up with.

And as I nervously looked around, I discovered a new problem: my shorts were painted!

I admitted defeat and pulled up my shorts to make the trek back to my room. I walked back through the building, fully aware of how bad I looked and smelled. My roommates woke up and smelled the stench, which I explained away by saying that I had terrible gas and just might need to go drop a dook. I found a new pair of shorts and then went to the showers to clean my ass, moving quickly while the showers were empty.

Afterwards, I took my shorts to the dumpster next to the bunker, which was now reeking of something truly unholy. I tossed them in, went back upstairs, and went to sleep.

I awoke the next morning, feeling just as sick, but making it to the shitters this time. After I finished, I signed the sick call sheet so that I could go see the medics about my now-violent stomach bug.

As I headed back to my room, I noticed a crowd around the bunker. I had forgotten to wash away the beef stew I left behind! Luckily there was a hose, and the floor of the bunker was dirt, so nobody had to actually touch the dookie.

Then, to my horror, somebody who was throwing away a bag of garbage found my ruined drawers.

Once again, though, I was in luck -- my name was nowhere on the shorts, and every soldier in the Army has multiple pairs of the same shorts. No ID was made; I was sick, but still anonymous.

The stomach bug, which lasted a total of eleven days, included several other "incidents" that couldn't really be helped (especially seeing as how I couldn't hold down solid food and had been reduced to Jell-o water and soup broth). But I recovered. One morning, some time after my illness, I was feeling just fine -- until I heard a cry that still echoes in my mind.

"Someone shat all over the bunker AGAIN!"