I'm waiting in line to get on the plane and it happens. The fart that is actually a wet shit. Luckily I'm last in line; unluckily, that means I don't have time to run back into the terminal and wash my ass. Oh, yeah, I was wearing white shorts. Very thin ones from Armani Exchange. They were so light and comfortable that I always wore them for travel. Unfortunately, the same properties that made them a great travel companion also made them display my fecal indiscretion like a badge of dishonor. I mean, this one went down my leg and everything. Just a big, runny, yellow-and-brown mess. (I think it was the Nathan's chilidog.)

Now I get on the plane and I ask the flight attendant to use the bathroom (she's blocking it) and she says, "I'm sorry, sir, not until we reach cruising altitude -- unless it's an emergency." So at this point I have to turn my stained-shorts-wearing ass around, display my colors, and sheepishly mutter, "It's an emergency."

So I'm in this tiny little airplane bathroom, taking off my shorts, disposing of the ruined undergarments, and trying to clean what I can off my shorts in the sink. As you might have guessed, it was ineffective. I managed to remove much of the color, but the smell was still there.

Now the walk of shame to my seat, which is in the first row of coach. Window seat --meaning I have to slide by two people who are already seated. I'm presented with the age-old question (albeit with a much easier answer, given my current circumstances). Which do I stick in their faces as I pass by: dong or dookie? They got the dong.

The worst part about the story is that I fell asleep in that seat and, as I customarily do, propped my feet up against the bulkhead in my slumber. When I woke, the front of the cabin reeked of shit and the two passengers next to me had moved. Apparently I hadn't done as good a job as I thought of cleaning myself up, and my propped-up legs really let out the scent of Flight 804 to Atlanta.