Embarrassing Moments -- Explosive Diarrhea

My sister, Candace, called me to tell me she had a new poop story and immediately thought of me. My reputation is secure.

Candace was going to pick up her daughter, Alexa, from her school (Shipley, which is private) and took my new baby nephew, Chase, with her. It's his feeding time, but no problem. His diaper should be changed, too. Candace climbs into the back seat of their brand-new white SUV where his car seat is. After feeding him, she unbuckles the myriad of S&M-like straps binding him to his car seat. She gently extracts his fragile body from the rigid transport and lays him on the seat. Candace peels the old diaper from his damp bottom. His delicate undercarriage is exposed to the elements for a few short, meaningful seconds. The car's warm interior works its wonders on his wee manhood.

And wee he does, in spectacular fashion, quite literally hosing my sister -- along with the inside of her sparkling clean vehicle. Fresh pee trickles down her face as she quickly reaches for a new diaper, but not quickly enough.

The gods of chaos stomped with full force on the toothpaste tube of his now liquefied intestinal tract. A geyser of dark brown hideousness roared forth from his tender sphincter with the full force of water spewing from a firefighting hose. Chase let fly with the abandon of a innocent newborn, giving my sister an instant DIY facial with explosive diarrhea.

Suddenly awash in pee and poop she has to get out to get a breath of fresh air. Her pristine SUV has been drenched in baby goodness. Said baby is now screaming. The temperature inside the car is rising along with steam from the rain forest of excrement. She reaches for the car door handle. The door won't open.

The child-safety lock is on. She's trapped.

She thinks briefly of yelling for help, but this is Shipley, after all. Such things simply don't happen here. Parents don't wear sweat suits to pick up their spawn. Parents are not usually smeared with excrement, either. She rules out screaming for help.

Candace also now develops a mysterious condition she calls "boob sweat," which mixes beautifully with the dripping pee and molten poop.

She has to get to the front seat to get out of the car, but she can't get squeeze through the space in the middle of the seats because that's where his car seat is.

Candace wiggles over the headrest, which offers four or five inches of room between it and the roof of the car. She shuts off the child-safety lock and staggers out of car. She rescues Chase from the rapidly overheating car. He is a complete mess and can't be cleaned with handy wipes. There's nothing else she can do for Chase right now and she can't leave him in the car. She wraps him in a blanket and carries him to find Alexa.

Naturally, Candace meets a former classmate in the parking lot who, unfortunately, comes over to say hello. He is an old friend of hers. Smiling outwardly as he approaches, she says to herself, I know I have poop in my hair. I look like poop. I smell like poop. I'm dripping with poop. My hands are smeared with poop. I can try to explain what happened and move on.

Or I shake hands with him using my poop hands.

She can't possibly explain herself without looking even crazier than she already does. She exclaims how glad she is to see him and shakes hands with him using her poop hand. She says she's picking up her daughter and can't stop to chat. She slips away quickly.

Candace glances at herself in a mirror later that day and notices a tiny fragment of something horribly familiar clinging to her tresses.

What the hell is that?

Oh my god, I still have poop in my hair.