Just me and Jack the dog drive the Canadian wilderness en route to Haines, Alaska. Being desert dwellers, we figure that 46 degrees F with rain would melt snow. The Canadian mountains do not agree, challenging us with piles of snow and half-frozen lakes.
If you’re like me, after the third extra large can of super energy drink, you may mistake the innocent “passing of air” for a jet of warm liquid between your butt cheeks. I cannot believe it. Not only do I soil my Khaki cargo pants, but when I raise my torso two inches above the driver’s seat to try and mitigate the mess, I find myself speeding 100 mph downhill, around twisty mountain roads which may contain patches of ice.
I get a grip, sit in the stench and slow down, figuring that this is not an event worth dying over…even if there is no place to pull over. Cold rain pours, and I laugh at the thought of Canadian Police pulling me over for speeding. Once I roll down the window, my human stench would greet the cop, along with the chunk of fresh Romano cheese lingering lost between the seats two hours ago, as well as the breath of a panting dog that steams the windows which we can’t roll down on account of the freezing rain. The cop would step back a few paces and let me go with a warning, perhaps something like, “Don’t travel without your wife anymore.”
I will not get out of this car until we reach Dawson Creek, which is 150 miles away. The damage is already done. Pew… Then I pass an accident where a semi-trailer overturned. Hopefully, the driver survived…and I wonder about the mess in his pants.
For me, the worse is yet to come, like pulling up to a motel and Jack flying out of the car. Perhaps he needs to go to the bathroom, but no, he just wants out of that stankin’ truck cab. I walk into the motel lobby with a wet race track on the back of my khakis, enhanced by the window’s reflection. Let me expedite this business transaction, get out of here before my scent gets in. “I’ll pay anything, here’s my card.” But friendly folks love to talk…as usually do I.
I back out of the door, facing the clerk, when two young kids giggle. They are behind me, standing in line with their parents. I thought I heard, “Mr. Poopy Pants” in-between giggles. Hey…give them something to laugh about. I’ll never see these people again – and if I was on my game, I’d correct the children and say, “I’m Mr. Khaki Pants.”