It was Victoria Day weekend -- also called "The May Two-Four" in Canada because it's a weekend of massive beer drinking. My good friend Gerry invited me on a fishing trip to Northern Quebec to catch walleye. The location was about as remote as you will find -- six hours north of Ottawa. The campsite is a favorite of the Native Canadians who reside in the vicinity. These guys can drink like you've never seen. Gerry had told me countless stories of the absolute insanity that prevails on this weekend, so I was really hoping I could keep up to this crazy group.

We left Ottawa on Thursday evening so we'd arrive in the morning. On our way we needed to stop for beer -- it's usually cheaper in Quebec than Ontario, so we planned to pick it up at a store there. Little did we realize that selection on this long weekend would be iffy at best; we were stuck with either Wild Cat or Lucky Lager in 950ml cans. Both are cheap and both considered poor quality, but we had no other options. We opted for the Lucky Lager and bought 96 cans... yes, ninety-six cans for the two of us. I felt this was extreme, but Gerry said we'd have no problem getting through it. (For you Americans, this is the equivalent of 192 sixteen-ounce beers --96 each over a four-day weekend.)

My buddy kept telling me it was going to be very cold, and as we got closer to the park it got foggier and foggier. When we finally arrived we had to drive over a snowdrift to gain access to the park; but once in there must have been 80 to 100 people camped and many a party in full swing (it was two AM). We met up with several of Gerry's acquaintances from previous years and began consuming our Lucky Lager. A few hours later guys were cooking up wings and other party food to absorb the intoxicating fluids.

My constitution is such that I can eat lots of bar food with absolutely no deleterious effects and usually have a quality dump with the consistency of tapioca; but this weekend, this was not the case. The next afternoon, having awakened on the floor of Gerry's friend's camper freezing cold and very hungry, I got up and went to take a dump in the only crapper available in the park. It was raining and just above freezing, but upon entering the crapper I was knocked flat by the overpowering stench of vomit and poop. I beelined out, hurled my stomach's contents, and vowed not to go back.

Gerry witnessed the whole episode. "Where are you gonna crap?" he asked.

To which I replied, "Not until we get home."

The gauntlet was thrown, so to speak, with Gerry announcing to all who cared to hear that I would be shitless for the entire weekend. Many a bet was placed on my prognostication. I decided then and there the only way to achieve this would be to eat sparingly.

I had no trouble for the first three days, except for some nausea when I was out in the boat. But on Monday morning, as we were packing up, it felt like I had piece of obsidian the size of a Buick in my gut. My solution was to get terrifyingly drunk and hope the pain would pass. As we said our goodbyes and loaded up there we arguments about whether or not I had dumped. I assured all I hadn't. Gerry vouched for my honesty but was predicting I wouldn't make it all the way home.

Off we went, with me sitting in the passenger seat, thoroughly shitfaced (in more ways than one). Gerry decided he was going to show me a great place for trout fishing and asked if a one-hour detour would kill me. In my state I said no and passed out, only to awake two hours later with the SUV stopped and Gerry yelling at me to help -- he'd managed to roll the boat over while still attached to the SUV when trying to navigate a severe path cut in the woods to this trout lake.

I stumbled out and was amazed at the destruction. All our belongings that had been in the boat were now strewn all over the area. Several fish from the live well were flopping on the ground. The fender on the boat trailer was bent into the wheel and needed to come off. Our only tools for this project were a pair of pliers and a tire iron.

I'd sobered up considerably by this point and was worried about our last ten cans of Lucky. I was relieved to find them dented but otherwise fine. This called for a toast -- we both realized we weren't going anywhere quickly. So we started a small campfire and tried to laugh off our demise.

All of a sudden my stomach emitted this horrendous yelp -- so loud my buddy thought I was gonna die. The pain was terrible. I had to go and go fast -- but I had no place other than the woods to comfort me. I staggered away, leaned back against a tree, and let rip. Nothing left me except liquid fire. I could feel a hard piece of crap blocking the way, leaving my ass distended and burning. I must have shit three or four liters of liquid hell until finally the Lucky Lager Log made its way out.

To say that it hurt would be an understatement. It was beyond the liquid hell I already experienced. It was big, hard as nails, black as night, with small, rock-like construction. It took me twenty minutes to pass and by the end was at least two feet long. I didn't have any toilet paper. Hurting like hell, I ripped off my underwear and cleaned up as best I could.

I made it back to the fire and Gerry asked if I'd been crying. I must have, as my eyes were watering terribly.

He asked how it went and I told him he didn't want to know. He took off to the scene of my distress and, using a stick, lifted my underwear off the pile. He came back and said he'd never seen such a large shit.

"I'm proud you survived this," he said. "It's lucky it didn't kill you." If he only knew. A small part of me did die that day. And it was Lucky that almost killed me.