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Have you ever been constipated and away from home? And not just constipated. I’m talking, constipated, but constantly on the verge of shitting your pants. There is no solace in knowing that you’re safe, despite a very real fear that you’re about to bring down the chocolate thunder in your jeans. Every moment, every shift of weight, every inch of movement is a tense step on a tightrope suspended across two skyscrapers without a safety net.

It’s just you, your will to survive, and the amount of clench power you have in your buttcheeks.

I went through this harrowing experience just a few days ago. It was Easter Sunday, and my family and I were on our way to brunch from church. The moment we hit the freeway, I felt a gurgle and a shake within my gut. “Uh oh,” I said to my brother.

“What? What’s wrong”

“I think I might have to take a shit. But wait, maybe not. I dunno. Either way, this is probably a ticking timebomb.”

“So what, you want me to go home?”

He asked me that question and I knew the smart thing would be to go home. But being the idiot that I am, I brushed it off and said that it would pass and I’d be fine in a few minutes.

The next thing I know, we’re at my favorite Hawaiian restaurant, getting ready to chow down on the Sunday brunch buffet. Yeah. I’m an idiot like that. Basically, every single element of this decision was horrible. (1) Seriously? Why didn’t you just go home? (2) A buffet? Are you fucking out of your mind? And (3) being my favorite Hawaiian place, the entire staff recognizes me. Also, (3b) the staff is made up almost entirely of really cute girls.

So what happened? I grabbed a plate and went to town at the buffet. A scoop of rice. A few pieces of island fried chicken. A few strips of chicken teriya—*GURGLE*. Uh oh. Oh boy. What have I done.

I haphazardly grabbed a few more items and rushed to the table. Maybe sitting will make it go away? No. Sitting will not make it go away. In fact. Sitting makes it worse. Well, a half-hearted bite or two of macaroni salad and I made a beeline to the bathroom. Maybe the pretty waitresses will think I’m just washing my hands if I make it quick.

The stall was dirty, but ever so inviting. I laid down the toilet seat cover, and then dropped another one on top for good measure. Can’t be too careful around these things. Especially with a buffet close by. I dropped trou and got to business. A minute passed. Two minutes. Five. Nothing. MOTHER FUCKER. Come on, you asshole of a digestive/excretory system. At the table you were ready to explode like a crap volcano, but now you’re dormant and quiet? Fuck you. Let’s get this party started so I can get back to my fucking lunch. Nothing. NOTHING.

I washed my hands, and headed back to the table. Hello waitresses, just back from washing my hands. Can’t be too clean, you know? Heh. Yeah. Anyway, back to food. I sit down and try to eat. A couple bites and a sip of water, and my stomach is roaring like a family of tigers arguing over a steak. Seriously? Are you fucking with me? You’ve got to be, because this can’t be a coincidence anymore. I looked over my shoulder to see what the waitresses were up to. Just chatting away, standing directly in my path to the bathroom. Of course they were. Otherwise this might be easy for me. But wait! They’re moving! They’re checking on their tables. Now is the time. GO GO GO.

Back in the stall. I came back so fast that the seat was still warm from my last visit. I know that I was the last one who used the toilet because I’d been eyeing the bathroom the whole time. Ok. Concentrate now. You can do this. Push. PUSH. PUUUSSSHH. Nothing. Not a fucking thing. It’s as if I didn’t have to shit at all. Even better, now someone has joined me in the bathroom. And the stall’s door has enough of a gap in between the wall and door that there’s a very clear line of sight. I may as well wave to the fucking guy because he can see me just as clearly as I can see him. He leaves, and judging from the quickness that he left, he was probably slightly uncomfortable with my audible struggle. Fuck you, guy. This grunting and groaning isn’t for show. I think I might be giving birth over here. Only, this food baby is an asshole and won’t cooperate. So, about ten minutes in, I give up again.

Hello again, waitresses. Just had to take a leak. Y’know. What with all the water I just drank. Yeah. Really long pee. Also, I had to wash my hands again, and you two know how thorough I am when it comes to my cleanliness. Yeah.

Back to the table. This time, I didn’t even need a bite. The moment I sat down, it felt like an avalanche of shit was just unleashed and barreling my intestines. The smell of food was nauseating, even though I was starving. My fear of shitting my pants and/or the restaurants toilet was countered with my growing depression that I couldn’t eat all this delicious food that I so desperately wanted. This entire process was torture.

One last try for glory. Third time is a charm, right stomach? Let’s make it count.

Feeling like this was my last hurrah, I decided to go for broke. If this shit gave me an aneurism, so be it. I dropped my pants, assumed position and squeezed until my eyes were about to pop out of my head. I started sweating. Tears started rolling down my face. Another dude walked in to take a piss and probably saw me turning bright red and shivering with the sheer force of my pushing. I spent nearly all of my energy trying to squeeze the demon spawn of shits out of me. I was exhausted. I was surprised I didn’t spontaneously combust. Feeling as if I was on the brink of defeat, I began pleading and bargaining. C’mon stomach. We’ve had some good times. I generally treat you well. How about you make this happen, for old time’s sake?

Nothing. I started to literally talk to my stomach. I turned into a hostage negotiator asking for a sign of good faith, and releasing just one piece of shit. Just one, and we’ll go over your demands. And in a fitting display of irony, I managed to evacuate a single piece of shit. If I wasn’t convinced that I was being fucked with before, this definitely sealed the deal.

I gave up again. Washed up. Walked out of the bathroom with my head low. Passed the waitresses. Hello. How are you. I’ve been trying to shit in your bathroom for the past half hour, who are we kidding? Please forget my face and act like everything is normal when I come to get take-out next week. Thanks.

Luckily, my family was finishing up. I sat in my seat and squirmed about for a little bit and we left. Thankfully, the drive home passed without incident. Because in an act of mercy and great relief, when I got home, I calmly walked to the bathroom, sat on my throne and crapped what looked like Mount Shitamenjaro.

*Phew*