There is a point to the following story, so bear with me…
A group of my friends and I went on a snowboarding excursion over winter break while I was in college. Because it was winter break, we had been drinking heavily the night before. We got up early on this fateful day and because we had been up late the previous night, I drank several cups of coffee on the way to the slopes.
This was a particularly brisk December morning, and because of this, I was wearing several layers of clothing. From the waist down, I was wearing long underwear, jogging pants, jeans, and snowboard pants (this will come into play later).
As an obvious foreshadowing, I have since discovered that lots o beer + plus cheap coffee = sudden and explosive projectile diarrhea.
So, there I was, on the opposite side of the resort. I was going up the ski lift, when I got the first signs that something was amiss in my bowels. I decided that it was just a bit of gas and went down the hill on another run. On the next trip of the lift, I realized that it was more than just gas and that I would be in need of a restroom in the very near future.
I had two options. I could hike the ridge back to the chalet, or I could go down the slope, and get on the lift at the other end of the resort that takes you back to the chalet. The first signs of impending doom happened on the way down that run. I knew I was in trouble and needed to get to a bathroom as quick as possible. At this point in the slope it diverged, one side was a nice intermediate run and the other was a black diamond. I took the black diamond, tucked down, and rode my board as fast as I ever have. For those of you unfamiliar with snowboarding – speed is really not your friend.
I get to the bottom of the slope and have enough built up inertia to coast across the flat and get to the line on my ski lift to relief. I sit down on the lift after an unusually brief line and thought that I was home free. Here’s when two problems presented themselves. First, this was the lift that serviced the beginner runs. This meant that inexperienced boarders and skiers would be getting off the lift at the top and, more often than on any other lift, piling it up right in front of the exit. The lift would stop every time this occurred and it seemed to stop after every other chair.
At this point, I was sitting there in complete agony – clenching my sphincter for all it was worth. I was trapped by the chair lift and it seemed an eternity between the lift stopping and starting. It had gotten up to full speed as it passed over the pulleys at one of the support poles when the second problem hit me. When the chair goes over these pulleys, it gets this quick up and down motion that seemed to be trying to shake the crap (literally) out of me.
After decades of riding the lift, I finally reached the top. I slid down the slope at the exit and as soon as my board slowed to less than running speed, I unstrapped the bindings and kicked the board off. I booted it in the general direction of the board storage and made my way – as fast as I could – to the chalet. I thought I could run, but it is impossible to do with your butt cheeks clenched tightly together. I speed-hobbled to the bathroom and busted into the first stall. I got my board pants undone then my belt and jeans button. I grabbed the string that tied my jogging pants tightly to my waist. I was literally sweating at this point and felt like I was about to explode. I tugged the string and it KNOTTED. I feebly started pulling at the knot with no progress. With shear desperation, I grabbed the waist line of the jogging pants and yanked. The string broke and everything else came down with one pull.
My ass shot a stream like a fire hose before my cheeks even touched the toilet seat. I plopped down, completely exhausted, and breathed a sigh of relief. The feeling I had at that point could only be rivaled by sex.
So, to answer your question, I’m not sure but it can be close.