Senior year of high school, I vowed never to step foot in the state of Michigan.

Recently, I visited Michigan for the fourth time in less than a year.

Everything I say is bullshit. Do not listen to me.


It was 4:30 AM Saturday.

Tony, Jord, Eric and I were hanging around in Tony's room, waiting for the "behind the scenes" trailer for Pauly Shore's new movie to load. In the meantime, I visited thehebrewhammer.com to see if any screenings of the movie in the greater Los Angeles area had been added. No screenings had been added since the last time I checked, but listings showed that the movie would be screening that weekend at a comedy festival in Montreal.

I wanted to see the movie. Jord wanted to see the movie. Tony wanted to see the movie.

—Let's go to Montreal, said Jord.
—Are you serious?
—Yeah. The movie's showing today at 7:15 PM. If we leave now, we can make it. Road trip to Montreal!

Total Distance: 571.53 miles
Total Estimated Time: 9 hours, 26 minutes

Thirty minutes later, we were on our way to Canada — no passports, no birth certificates, no sleep, no knowledge of whether tickets for the movie were still available.

Eric, unfortunately, could not join us because he actually has parents, and they wanted at least two hours notice before any impulsive road trips out of the country.


Tony asked me to get him a bottle of water.

I rummaged through a paper bag full of hastily-packed food and handed him one.

—You brought Pepto-Bismol? I asked.
—Yeah. Just in case.
—In case of… All right…


We stopped at a Tim Hortons (the Canadian equivalent of Dunkin' Donuts) for breakfast. Tim Hortons and Wendy's franchises are everywhere in Ontario. I've never seen a Wendy's in California.

I bought an iced cappuccino and donut holes. The food was awful, real bland.


About two-thirds of the way to Montreal, we stopped to get gas. I peed, Tony bought a postcard. As soon as we left the gas station, my stomach became upset.

Shit, I thought.

—Jord, I need to go to the bathroom.
—What? But we were just at a rest area…
—Well, I didn't need to go then!

Jord got off the highway at the next exit and stopped at some podunk gas station wherein I unloaded my wares.

Splish. Splash.

Fuckin' Tim Hortons, I thought. The previous day, I had only eaten two slices of bread and three slices of cheese pizza. It had to be what I had from Tim Hortons that morning.

Fortunately, there was some Pepto-Bismol in the car.


When diarrhea strikes, aftershocks always ensue.

—Jord, heh, I need to go the bathroom again.
—I can hold it though. I'll wait until we get to Cornwall.
—Are you sure?

As much as Tony and Jord claim that they would've been more than happy to stop any time my bowels needed attention, I didn't want to be a nuisance. Hey, Tony gets annoyed easily. I didn't want this road trip to become that commercial for Imodium AD in which a father makes frequent stops at public restrooms on a family trip. Less is more, right? I could endure abdominal pain for an hour, I thought.

Just outside Cornwall, however, I tapped.

Upon exiting the highway, Jord drove for an excruciating three minutes through countryside before arriving at a Subway, where he took his merry time parking. Then, Tony got out of the car in slow motion and pulled the passenger seat forward to let me out.

As I was charging into the Subway, I sensed some premature evacuation in my pants.

Inside the restroom, my worst fears were confirmed.

Call it "over-excitement."

I have this theory that when you desperately need to defecate, your control over your anus is inversely proportional to your distance from a toilet — that is, the closer you are to a toilet, the less you're able to stop traffic.

Still leaking, I sat down on the toilet to finish the job. My ass cheeks smeared watery feces all over the toilet seat. I tried to salvage my pants, cupping the cotton bowl of poop fondue between my ankles with my left hand in an effort to stave off any further interaction between my boxers and my pants. Meanwhile, my other hand busily mopped my ass.

Someone knocked on the door.

—Hold on!

I carefully took off my shoes, socks and pants and threw my soggy underwear in the small trash can under the sink. My lower body was plastered in excrement. I wanted to shower; I settled for paper towels.

More knocking.

—One minute!

I washed my hands thoroughly and made sure I had adequately cleaned up the restroom before leaving. A pudgy old man greeted me at the door. Poor fellow.

—I…shit my pants.
—Did you shit your pants in the car? Jord inquired, nonchalantly.
—No. It happened on my way in.

I expected more of a reaction. The two Wankers acted like people shit their pants all the time around them.

In retrospect, maybe I should have shit in the car.