I arrived home from the tucked away, starlit courtyard at The Tree, my belly full of Westmalle Tripel and wood fired pizza. As I began to tell my half-asleep roommate, Nick, about my evening, I urgently had to poop. Mid-sentence, I hastily grabbed my toiletries - paper seat cover, toilet paper, and baby wipes - knocking them off my shelves and into my arms like it was final round of Super Market Sweep. Crowning, I used my back to blast open the bathroom door, and enter the stall. At this point I think to myself, "There is a realistic chance I don't make it."

Now, you must understand that the area between the the stall's door and the toilet allows barely enough room to stand, let alone turn around, which is why I went to the behind-the-back seat cover application with simultaneous pants drop. This is a deluxe time saver with a high degree of difficulty (the wiggling necessary to execute this maneuver didn't aid my situation).

Alas, time to be seated. Relief only comparable to your Rabbi gesturing, "you may be seated," after The Morner's Kaddish following a cold and rainy winter in Palm Beach. Only one more small, but hugely important task remains: Make sure my junkyard does not touch the seat. This is the singular Western-style toilet in a Chinese dorm, more popular than the Halo 3 in an American dorm. So, I carefully tuck and sit. Home.

But, after 30 seconds of glory, the Westmalle anesthesia wears off and my pen fifteen is cold. "Hmm, that's strange," I said aloud, only to discover I'd just shat on a clogged and overflowed toilet! Kudos to me for avoiding the toilet seat with my member, perhaps now I'll dip it into a giant bowl of shitty water. In fact, I'll let it bathe for a while, just soaking up all the shitty goodness of the breakfast, lunch, and dinner of whoever came before me. Then I'll go for a light swim in a sewage tank, and maybe I'll even see Frank Drebin there.

This type of miscue that, in a movie, leads to the creation of a superhero. But, in real life, leads to hours of compensatory cleansing, chronic nausea (like I needed it), and insomnia.

This is the only scenario I can think of where, in hindsight, shitting my pants was the more attractive option.