Funny you'd mention those two things...
Today I was on a gig two counties away. Drove out on the interstate, gnawing on a PBJ sandwich made out of some hippy bread that's all nuts and berries, it was good. While out there working, I got thirsty. Grabbed a little bottle of milk. That was good too.
Got done early, and decided to take some shady two-lanes back to town, because they are pretty. They also take 30 minutes longer, but what is time? Nice drive back through the country. Then I'm in stop-and-go generic suburbia, starting to get the farts, but no sign of worse. I pass dozens of fast food restaurants with functioning bathrooms, but I don't need them, not me!
Finally I am only about 5 miles from home, locked into traffic, but hey, I can make it.
About 2 miles out, I realize it is about to hit. I have eased out all the air farts I have left. The next one will be Sea Monster. I am in a dead zone commercially with only one business within my rapidly-reduced range. A gas station. The kind where you have to go in and get the bathroom key on a stick from the guy. I am not going to make it. I look at the other side of the road where there is a parking lot for a running trail, are there some portapotties? Fuck if I know, green light, hit the gas,, I am dead, it is over, KAMIKAZE!
I cut off a pick-up truck while my body reverse-prison-rapes me. I feel a rattlesnake slither from under my butt. I am driving normally now, what's the rush. Oh here's another wave, more liquid. I roll through Craftsman Cottage 1940s Suburbia with the window down, slowly easing past joggers. Construction? Of course there's construction making me ease into a blindspot where there could be oncoming cars. A fender-bender would be great right now, get out with pants full of brown sackrete, oh yeah that'll buff out, here's my number and insurance.
Several more baby sharts join Mama and Daddy Shart in my pants, and I'm home. There's a hidden way from the garage to the back deck, where I strip off boots and socks (wonderfully dry) and then peel off pasty trousers and underwear and toss them out on the damn deck for a future thunderstorm to take care of. One of my legs is clean, the other looks like it rolled in the mud at Woodstock. Tiptoe to the shower, where I have to rub my hand all up in the actual clay-like shit on my messy leg to get it off.
Then I ignore the clothes out on the deck, the disaster of the car seat, and go up to bed just to lie down and refocus. When I feel stronger, I get dressed in regular dirty clothes (I mean, why the hell not) and go throw the shart garments inside out on the grass and blast them. Then I fill a bucket with soapy water, toss those clothes in it, and stir them around with a stick just like a fucking savage. I don't know if they will ever come clean or not. They are still outside on the deck in the bucket.
As for the car seat, I don't give a fuck about that right now. I hit it with a little of the soapy water, but the garage is honestly too dark to see and I'm too tired to move the car into better light. I took the no-doubt-fecal-flecked shower towel and folded it several times as a seat cover over any refugee mini-turds that maybe extruded into that place.
I just don't care. I am defeated.