Last winter I was in town visiting family and friends. Myself, the wife, my kid, and my parents were all out at dinner at the Longhorn. Dinner wrapped up and I felt some pressure in my guts, but decided to wait until I got back to my parents' house to poo. This decision proved costly.

We had driven separately from my parents, so we went to our cars and began the trip back to their house on the south side of town. About halfway there, things began to happen inside me that forewarned of an imminent doo doo. It was coming, and it was coming soon. I told my wife, "I really have to poop, we have to get home soon." "You are gross." She really had no idea.

As we traveled what is typically a 15 minute drive, my concern and efforts to keep the poo inside me increased exponentially. Time seemed to slow down as I had to stop at what seemed like every traffic light on the way. The pressure in my intestines grew as my knuckles turned white grasping the steering wheel. Each stop induced an "oh my god" muttered under my breath and a deep breath and sigh. "You're being kind of dramatic," mentioned the wife. "You don't understand, I REALLY have to poo."

One mile from the house, waiting at a traffic light, all warning signs and alarms are going off inside me. I'm perspiring, cramping and clenching. Poop is going to come out of me, and it is going to come out of me quickly. At this point, it is mostly a straight shot to the parents' house. 2 four-way stop sign intersections, a couple of short turns and I am there. Almost home.

2/3rds of mile from the house, the first intersection. As I am coming to a stop, it is quite clear that we have an emergency situation. As the car slows, small, short repeating farts start coming out of me against my will. We are in the Danger Zone. My wife is becoming aware of what is really happening here, "Are you ok?". The sweat running down my red face answered her question. "I am not going to make it."

At this point, I have accepted the fact that making it to a familiar toilet is not really an option. I am most likely going to be pooping outdoors and I have to immediately find a spot to poop. The road I'm on has houses on the left and mostly field to the right, but where to stop? "I have to pull over." "Pull over there," exclaimed my wife.

A road into a subdivision was on the right. I turned the car and again had houses on the left and field to right of me. At this point, panic had set in, a decision had to be made. Now, I'm not one that believes in destiny, but out of no where, a small hill appeared. It looks as though it had been a pile of dirt, no more than 2 feet high, that had been left from a construction site. It would have to do.

She saw the hill first and pointed it out. I slammed the brakes of the car and through it into park. The sudden stop was not a good idea, for the forces on my body created by the sudden stop resulted in a shart. It had begun, and I was too late.

I leapt from the car and waddled to just behind the hill. The cold air provided some comfort to me, but not enough to relieve the agony I was feeling. I carefully, yet quickly pulled my pants and underwear to around my ankles and assumed a crab-walk position. And the poop did flow, oh my, how the poop did flow.

It was dark, but my offerings were quite evident on the ground. I took a moment to take a deep breath and notice the minivan that was driving past us. Oh, what they must have thought. I began to become more aware of my situation and started to think about the next steps when the second round came. I did a slight sideways shuffle to find a blank canvas to poop on. It was quite clear that this was the final round.

My wife rolled down her window and asks, "Are you ok?" It took me a moment to respond, as I struggled with the answer to this question. "I need something to clean myself with," I told her. "I'm bringing you a baby wipe."

I love my wife dearly, I'd be lost with out her, but for the love of Pete, she brought one, and only one, baby wipe. I explained to her, that more would be needed and she obliged. She did her best to mask the horror on her face, but it was quite clear, our relationship had changed.

With my wife back in the car, clean up began in earnest. (As a side note, baby wipes are fantastic to wipe your arse with.) Clearly, the underwear were not going back on. I removed my shoes, pants and underwear. The underwear were flung to the side, never to be seen again by me. A quick inspection of the pants revealed, miraculously, that no poop found its way into or on them. The pants went back on.

I rose from my makeshift latrine, and slowly walked back to the car, somewhat in shock. The rest of the drive home was quiet.