Years ago, I boarded a Delta flight from Alaska to Alabama on July 5th. I'd spent the previous day, independence day, consuming a toxic combination of warm Olympia beer and potato salad which I later learned was riddled with ecoli or some silimar microscopic abomination. Little did I know, the contents of my colon would soon declare a little independence of their own...

Once the plane takes off, I fall asleep, unaware of the brewing gastro-intenstinal storm. I'm grateful that I slept through what must have been a horrific, midflight poo-ruption of epic proportions. There is but one thing worse than being awakened by the smell if your own poo and that is having it happen while in the confines of an aluminum tube full of strangers sharing the same re-circulating, putrified air while hurtling through the earth's upper atmosphere at 600 miles per hour.

As my inebriated mind stuggled to make sense out of the heinous vapor rising from beneath me, I noticed the terrified man in the aisle seat. He was leaning so far away from me I thought he might fall over into the aisle. Mustering what little dignity I could, indicated to him that I would need to get up and I commenced the walk of shame towards the rear of the plane to the toilet. The passengers on the plane leaned away like a parting sea as I waddled down the aisle.

I felt better in that tiny little shitter. A little solace. A place to develop a plan. Cringing, I took an exploratory look at the damage - things were bad. Very bad.

I spent the next 25 to 30 minutes using the scant resources I had available to me to make myself look less like a homeless heroin addict. Like McGyver beginning to assemble some contraption that would save his life, I made a visual inventory of the few supplies in the tiny room. A little handsoap, some t.p., some paper towels, a splash of water, a sock, a little more handsoap, more t.p., a stick of wintergreen chewing gum, a short pep-talk in the mirror and I was feeling pretty good about things. I mean, I'd shit myself in a small public space, and then shoved my soiled boxers and a sock into the tiny trashcan hole like a serial killer trying to hide the evidence, but all things considered I'd recovered quite nicely.

The toiled was slayed, truly uninhabitable, so I retreated to the cabin.

I spent the rest of the flight standing near the emergency exit, totally willing to pull that red handle and risk floating down to earth in one of those yellow inflatable boats, Indiana Jones style, rather than suffer through another round.