Shit Happens
My contribution to this particular QOTW concerns yours truly driving home from work late one afternoon in peak hour traffic and getting the “urge”. At first I attempted to dismiss the desire by nonchalantly whistling along to some tune that was playing on the car radio, all the while desperately trying not to be too distressed by the predicament in which I suddenly found myself. The bravado however lasted all of about thirty seconds, when I was hit with what can only be described as the worst gut wrenching pain I have ever experienced. There I was crawling along in bumper-to-bumper traffic with the distinct feeling I was about to disgrace myself.

It is said that necessity is the mother of invention, something I can say I wholeheartedly agree with. With the possibility a trouser soiling was imminent, I looked around for something that would provide me (and the car seat) with some measure of protection. Spying the front passenger side car mat, I whipped it up off the floor and deftly slid it in between the seat and myself, considering that if the worst was indeed to happen, at the very least the car seat would be saved.

Fortuitously the line of cars began to move, which somehow gave me renewed hope that I wouldn’t be disgracing myself after all. I drove into the first petrol station along the way and urgently parked the car crookedly alongside the toilets. With great agility and indeed clenched cheeks, I extracted myself and the mat from the car, and quickly waddled my way into the one and only ‘Mens’ room that was oh so mercifully vacant. I had no sooner latched the door and was basically lowering myself in that classic kangaroo position, when the manure dam burst its bank. Oh dear. So should the poor cleaner of the Mobil Service Station at Lansvale NSW, or indeed the next person who was to happen upon my rectal faux pas be reading this, I deeply and humbly apologise for what it was you saw that day.
(Cogitator, Tue 1 Apr 2008, 2:59, Reply)