After consuming far too much pizza and donuts during a party, I was faced with the fact I had to poo. Not the good kind that is as patient as you'd like to be; this was the kind of poo that reminds you of the screaming child in the toy store who can't wait until their birthday for a particular toy. The pizza parlor I had walked out of locked the doors behind me, and the rest of the stores in the center were closed for the night as well. I wasn't familiar with the area either, so I bet myself that the 20 minute drive home would be far quicker than driving around blindly looking for a public toilet.
My poo started throwing a tantrum about halfway home. Every pothole I hit was like the wails of my large, smelly child. The cramps were horrendous, and the squeal of every fart seemed like a pump priming itself. A PUMP OF POO!
I had to do a small dance in my car seat to deal with the pain of the impending shitstorm, and raced home ever faster as the pressure built. I tore into my apartment's parking lot and did a horrible parking job in the rush. I didn't care, because realized I was just minutes away from my toilet, but just a few seconds from a colonic disaster. I did a half jog to my room, because walking was too slow and running jarred my intestines too much. The caca countdown began. At 5 I was at my door. 4 saw me with my keys in the lock. 3 had me tearing through the living area to my bedroom door. At 2 I was in my bathroom with my pants around my ankles, and I was fumbling with my underwear. The Brown Bomb went off early, just as I was hovering over my toilet seat.
The first wave hit my undies and jeans, but luckily missed the bathroom rug. I spent a good ten minutes finishing up my dirty work before I was satisfied, and spent an additional 15 trying to get the shit out of my jeans. I simply tossed my tighty not-so-whities into the garbage. The moral of the story? Shit happens.