Is not the name of a south african tribe.

Thursday evening, while I sat at a little outdorr table in front of a pub and yapped with my friend Jenny and Ed Zotti, I got one of those warnings. You know, those not so subtle pressures that say “You will begin shitting in T minus 18,17,16….”

Anyway, I managed to stave off the warnings, which came as
painpainpain, then the sound deep in your gut YOI YOI YOI YOI. and then NOT A FART NOT A FART NOT A FART, and a nice squeeze of the Buns of Steel. So I didn’t manage to soil myself in front of two people I’ve just met, but only barely.

The drive home, since I’m seated, is relatively safe, even though it was about 58 miles; seven or eight more warnings before I got home and managed to get to the Throne Room and leave a deposit.

No repetitions, I’m beginning to wonder if my colon just likes to harsh my mellow. Once I had it out of my system, I was fine. It was only in a potentially embarrassing public situation that it acted up.

This has historical precident; on the first night I met my ex, I had such a case of the runs I ended up shuffling off to her parent’s bathroom and soiling it so badly I ended up having to do some minor housecleaning. One girlfriend, many years ago, had the unpleseant experience, right in the middle of us moistening her back seat with our sweatiness, of having to watch me wander off and drop a deuce in the grass. Well, I doubt she actually watched me, I would have never seen her again, but she was there for the event. It’s not about women, either, I’ve had this on job interviews, during weddings, etc.

I hope to hell it’s over and done before we head off into the friendly skies on Sunday. Nothing like having to shit in an airplane crapper.