(This is a true story about a roadie for my band that really needed to use the potty.)
While trekking across the frozen wasteland known as "Montana", a roadie announced that he was experiencing a disturbance of the gastro-intestinal kind. Being lunchtime and needing fuel, all members of our party voted to take a break from traveling. The roadie, whose bowels were screaming for attention, jumped out of the vehicle and made a mad dash for the Flying J building, where he could find shelter from the literal sh*t storm that was descending upon him.
However, the gods of touring had turned on him. A mere fifty yards before he reached the safety of the Flying J haven, with all of its well-maintained facilities, his body lurched into revolt, expelling a moderately robust turd into his Hanes.
After cleaning himself up, (and disposing his soiled briefs), he rejoined his partners in crime at the lunch buffet within the truck stop. After sharing his embarrassment for the benefit of comedy within the ranks of his party, he dined on a wonderful smorgasbord of edibles offered to weary travelers. However, his full-bellied satisfaction soon transformed to an impending sense of doom as he began to feel a familiar urge.
Knowing he must act quickly before history repeated itself, the protagonist bolted out of the restaurant relying on his internal compass to navigate him back to this diarrhetic's haven, the men's room. Well, as he emerged into the open spaces of the truck stop he realizes that the familiar potty he stopped at before was on the other side of the building, a good hundred yards, at least.
Quickly reacting to his new set of circumstances, he looked for a closer facility. Frantically searching, his eyes hit pay dirt. There, a mere twenty yards to his left is a sign bearing the international symbol for poop amnesty. Running towards the promised land as fast as one can while doing the bow-legged mosey/sprint that can only be performed by a man under great duress; he reaches the door that serves as the goal line his poopey end zone... Only to find that the restroom he chose was designated for the fairer sex. While that alone may not have deterred him from completing his most urgent mission, his doo-doo designs were further halted by the female representative of the Montana State Trooper Patrol that was washing her hands. Meanwhile, our hero's body had begun to automatically relax upon believing that relief was in site. Upon the shock of realizing the mistake made, the roadie in question did the only thing it could do: He crapped himself on the spot.
Many variations on this tale have been told over the years; perhaps the sight of an officer of the law was too much for this rock-n-roll bandit, or maybe he should have dined on a bottle of Pepto Bismo instead of truck stop buffet food. But one thing's for sure: He's the one and only person I've known over the age of six that has sh*t his pants twice within forty-five minutes.