About ten years ago, I was working onsite at a major manufacturer of heavy equipment. Their regular workforce had gone on strike, and we found ourselves (as suppliers) busy as hell trying to keep machinery in good order.

I had worked twenty eight hours straight, going from machine to machine recovering from errors or repairing broken components or just making sure the equipment was being fed sufficient raw material to go on. The area manager, with whom I had become good friends, came up to me to ask if things were going well. “are you having fun yet?” were, I believe, his exact words.

Not to be outdone my his sarcasm, I said “Yes! I’m having this much fun exactly!” and here I pissed my pants. As my jeans darkened, he looked at the spreading stain, shook his head, and moved on.

I worked another hour, wet and smelly, and went back to my hotel.

Lest you think I was the shining spot of utter insanity on location, I must point out I worked there a year with a guy who, one day, left work early so he could plant a pipe bomb in his girlfriend’s porch, which subsequently killed her. Pissing myself, by comparison, was fairly tame.