Mexico 902 Wha.. Uh-Oh!

Damn It was October 2000 and my parents wanted to have a “family vacation” with just our immediate family. The destination: Orlando, Florida for a visit to Universal Studios and Disney World. During our stay, we went to the famed Epcot Center, which is filled with technology and wonder. It also contains a large section in the rear of the park which showcases the countries around the world, and they have areas dedicated to Germany, America, Norway, England, and Morocco, to name a few. Each of these areas are true to the country being displayed, which also includes each pavilion having a restaurant featuring authentic food from the specific country.

On the night we decided to go, we did not park in the usual parking area. Instead, we parked at a location a distance away and there is a 10 minute boat ride you can take and you can gain access to the park right by the International Pavilion. On this particular night, after walking around the park and building up a hunger, we decided to eat in Mexico. The food and atmosphere were excellent, but during my meal (some sausage dish that was very good), I could sense a storm was coming in my digestive system. It seemed that the troops were gathering and planning a full out attack on my colon, but they were being very secretive and quiet about it, so I dismissed it as a little gas.

After dinner, we decided to leave the park and walking just seemed to stoke the fires of the oncoming army. When they decided to charge, screaming for vengeance, I had already exited the park and was waiting for the boat to arrive. If I had a mirror, I’m sure that my face, upon realizing the war that had begun in my bowels, would have looked something like Mr. Furley’s from Three’s Company after he took a strong drink. I quickly began to panic and also scanned the area for a bathroom. None. Zero. Squat. I began to panic a little more. I had three options: Get back into the park, Crap my shorts, or hang my ass off the side of the boat and crap in the river. I chose the first option. I hastily walked up to the gate and told them that I had just left the park and was wondering if I could please get back in to use the men’s room. The guy at the turnstile seemed skeptical, but then, and this is the king of all embarrassments, MY MOTHER comes up to vouch for me. But it worked and the guy lets me in. I am now hunting for a bathroom with the speed of a cheetah chasing a gazelle.

I finally find a bathroom in the UK and, of course, it is packed. I flee to an empty stall, tear open my shorts like they are a Christmas gift and let the charging force that overtook my colon with ease, loose. Suddenly the bathroom is filled with sounds that could only be described as if a hundred whoopee cushions were sat on at the same time by a weight watchers group. It was a cacophony of farting, a chorus of methane, followed by a stench that could have gotten me arrested for suspicion of chemical warfare or warranted a HAZMAT team to close the bathroom off. I’m sure I have permanently scarred some children that were in that bathroom at the time of this magnificent blast. Japanese tourists fled in terror, thinking it was Hiroshima all over again. Like any catastrophic incident, it was over in a short time, despite it feeling like an eternity. I walked out of the stall a broken man, sweat on my brow and feeling drained and weak. I washed up, tried to look like I hadn’t fought 15 rounds against the Devil, and walked out. Upon walking out, I run into my father (who ate the same dish I did at dinner) who is walking into the bathroom and just says, “same thing”. Just when they thought it was over, it was back, with twice the power and twice the experience. I knew those poor people were doomed.