The IBS Diaries Vol. 19: Trespassing Discharge


We have a literal wild ride this week for IBS Diaries XIX. Hang tight as Anonymous takes the wheel and show him support while you do so.


I had been hiding my IBS for over 4 years from my fiancé (now wife which is amazing after this shit show of a display).  Not only do I have IBS, I also have an irrational fear of public restrooms.  Likely the worst combo of ailments.

IBS and a phobia of away games is a straight curse. Always someone out there who’s got it worse than you.

Okay, I am two nights away from my wedding day. My folks fly in we meet up for dinner. I do my normal shit, shower, shave pre-outing routine.  Pre-shitting is key as it has always bought me a few extra minutes of IBS time.  My fiancé and I drive downtown (15 mins away) and have a great meal at some nice steak place.  My folks were staying a close by, so we go back for a quick drink in the lobby.  Well, while in the lobby, the bubble gut kicks up.  I see the restroom just across the lobby, but my irrational fears kick in, I remember the pre-game, and know I can make it home, however, time is critical.  I announce that its time to head back and off we go.

Potential witnesses: Fiancé, who you haven’t come out the IBS closet with yet.

Pants situation: Drinks with the future in-laws should at least have you repping $60 in damages.

Current form of transit: Motor vehicle. Park & go as soon as you get the opportunity.

Nearest restroom: Our victim has a casual fear of public bathrooms so it’s the home throne every time. Sounds completely miserable

Well as soon as we hit the freeway, it is bumper to bumper.  I’m talking no one is moving traffic.  I go from polite conversation about our upcoming wedding, to full on road rage as my intestines continue to sing.  I decide that my best course of action is a little pressure release to buy some time.

How many times do we have to go over the consequences of farting during the grace period?

The risk outweighs the reward every time. Even if it ends up not being a shart you’re still stupid for trying. It’s an out-of-moves move and only that.

So, I let one go… huge mistake, smells like death.  I quickly blame the cars in front of us and the smell as the reason for the traffic jam… I know genius.  Then I realize, the gas has been turned on and is not stopping.  So, my small release turns into an all out emergency.  I literally start sweating.  I’m in all out panic trying to determine how I am going to explain why the wedding was off for shitting myself.  So, I do the only thing I can think of, I pull to the right shoulder and hit the gas.

We’re going Jeff Gordon here in the slums of the grace period. If his soon-to-be-wife wasn’t sitting shotgun for this then I think we can all agree you just let the accident happen under these circumstances. But love is on the line here. If he shits his pants in front of her then this could be it folks.

Now my fiancé has no clue what the fuck is going on, so she starts yelling at me as I fly up the freeway.  I tell her that I am going to be sick and I need a bathroom.  Then I see the cause of the traffic… huge construction on the right shoulder… So now I’m totally fucked as there is no way around.  I start to slow down and look for trees or some type of cover to hide behind.  That’s when I notice a porta potty at the construction site.  I tell my fiancé to hold tight, I pull up to the jersey barrier, park the car, and make the mad dash.  I take off my belt, undue my tie, and start to undue my pants/fly before I even open the door.  I hear a good amount of yelling and some car horns behind me.  Don’t care, I dive into that damn porta potty.  My irrational fear is at 100% but I have no choice.  I go on to destroy that porta potty like a porta potty has never been destroyed before.  I am drenched in sweat, disheveled, but victorious.

I open the door to five men telling me they have called the cops and that im trespassing on a public project.  Again, don’t care.  I walk back to my car, act like everything is perfectly fine, and merge back into traffic.  I inform my fiancé that its best to forget what just happened and start talking about how great the wedding will be.  For some unknown reason, she still marries me, and we have not talked about what happened since.  Probably didn’t want to have to explain to her father why she left me for almost shitting my pants.

While I am proud of my victory, if you publish I would prefer to remain anonymous.  Don’t know if I’m still wanted on that trespassing charge.

The post-shit clarity for this one had to be something else. A messy win but a win nonetheless. Send in your IBS diaries for next week to 

And as long as we’re on topic:


Old entries:

IBS Diaries Vol 1.

IBS Diaries Vol 2.

IBS Diaries Vol 3.

IBS Diaries Vol 4.

IBS Diaries Vol 5: Blizzard Beach

IBS Diaries Vol 6: Hotel HotBox

IBS Diaries Vol 7: Hand Soap Showers

IBS Diaries Vol 8: Fried Egg Run

The IBS Diaries Vol. 9: The IBS Queen

The IBS Diaries Vol. 10

The IBS Diaries Vol 11: Chinese Takeout Takedown

The IBS Diaries Vol. 12

The IBS Diaries Vol. 13: In-Bathroom Accidents

The IBS Diaries Vol. 14

The IBS Diaries Vol. 15

The IBS Diaries Vol. 16: Caught Brown-Handed

The IBS Diaries Vol. 17: Costume Party

The IBS Diaries Vol. 18: Frozen Solids