It was a hot summer in south Florida right after my freshman year in college. A new local restaurant was opening up and I was in bad need of a summer job. After numerous interviews and much effort, they granted me permission to become a server at this very high-end restaurant -- a surprise for a young man of my age. I was a hard-worker and fit in, but most of my co-workers were experienced lifetime servers.

The restaurant was like a Houston's, with an older, wealthier clientèle. It was particularly popular since it had just opened. The night before this event, I had eaten a three-cheese steak omelet with broccoli followed by a late-night Taco Bell run. I knew I had a bad history with that type of nacho cheese sauce, but even with a double shift looming the next day I decided to go for it.

The lunch shift went fine, with no evidence of the Mt. Vesuvius-like eruption that was about to eject from my anus like a pilot at ten thousand feet. I took my break in between shifts and then started my night shift.

I would like to note that the aprons we were forces to wear were long and constraining, and that I usually had to keep Gold Bond around.

So seven o'clock arrives promptly with an hour-and-a-half wait at the door and a full section of tables. And that's when it all went down. Walking explosively out of the kitchen, I let out a fart that had zero air behind it. I knew immediately that the latter half of my boxers were dunzo; and with the constricted motion due to my apron, it felt like a whole bottle of Vaseline was dumped in between my butt cheeks.

Panicking, I decided I would let it be and give it that awkward, half-assed wipe thing you do when no one's looking, as I was completely slammed with work. About ten minutes later, I was at the bar waiting on cocktails with some other servers. At this point I could smell it from behind me, even overpowering the strong aroma of meat on the grill. An older server, who was mid-forties, looked at me and goes, "Kinda smells like a shit over here, dude."

Now it had gotten too far. Someone had smelled the epic disaster looming in my backside. I brushed it off and said, "I think there was a baby or something." But I knew that I had no choice but to completely blow off my tables and sacrifice my tip. I ran to the bathroom, went into the stall, and completely undressed, finding that a brown asteroid had destroyed my underwear. It was so bad, in fact, that it had penetrated my pants and apron. Just throwing out my boxers would not eliminate the smell.

In an all-out rage, of which I remember very little, I tore apart all the cabinets, finding only Citrus Magic orange-scented spray at the very back. I quickly doused my pants and apron with it, as my boxers were now ancient history. I got dressed again and finished my shift in discomfort but with my secret kept -- although older staff members were still giving me looks.