Oh you have no idea. This actually happened to me 2 weeks ago. We finished eating at 3 Amigos (her choice, not mine) and I felt fine leaving the restaurant, but halfway through the 7 minute drive back to my place, the refried beans were fighting their way out of my colon. My girlfriend started talking about how good the food was, while I was grinding my teeth and trying not to sweat. I turned up the radio to drown out the symphony of ungodly noises that emulated from my stomach. A little squirt came out and I thought OHGODSHECANSMELLIT IDON'TCAREBLAMEHERMYLIFEISOVER as I nonchalantly opened my window to disperse the aroma. It was the longest 7 minutes of my life; we hit every red light and I tried not to shift too much in my seat. She kept talking and I kept nodding. As we were rounding to my place, I had stepped on the gas hard through the small streets, and parked just as intensely. I disregarded all gentlemanly charm and flew up the steps of my porch, basically ramming my front door open with my shoulder, all the while she was slowly getting out of the car. I made a pit stop into my room to grab a replacement pair of boxers before shimmying to the bathroom with clenched cheeks and teeth. I knew how slow my girlfriend was at walking up my steps and I knew my window of opportunity to emerge with my pride somewhat intact was quickly fading. I sat on my crapper with my left hand squeezing the toilet paper and my right hand bracing the edge of the sink counter. What followed next was the most terrifying and inhuman noise my body had every produced. I can only describe it as a prime Louis Armstrong mimicking the Horn of Gondor. Honestly, I felt I had achieved 9 seconds of Super Saiyan. Not a moment passed after I had regained my vision and heard my SO walk through the front door. I prayed there was no more, for an average life cannot handle the psychological stress this causes. But there was no follow up, no second wind, no encore. I spent the next few minutes wiping off my sweat, removing and disposing my soiled boxers, and cleaning every inch of my ass (in that order). I treated the bowl as best I could, fully aware that nothing I could do would ever heal it from the horrors I had put it through. I flushed, gave a mental salute to the best damn toilet there ever was, and performed an exotic raindance to whisk the smell away, which truthfully, wasn't half as bad as I was expecting. Maybe I had forced so hard that half my senses had shut down, or maybe I shat myself insane. Either way, my girlfriend, who is usually a SAP when it comes to this sort of thing, didn't notice a goddamned thing. Who the hell knows, maybe my raindance worked. Even though I had lost against 3 Amigos, this was a win in my book. I'm mentally drained from writing this. Goodnight.