A Sharting Diabetic in need of Insulin!!

Like many of us who have been in this position, my adventure follows a night of heavy drinking and a trip to a fast food joint at 2:30 in the morning.
This all began while driving from Lansing to my office in downtown Detroit.

My stomach feels like, what I might imagine a woman feels like just before she gives birth. I seriously felt like I had some six pound shit monster poking at my midsection with a dagger, doing anything to find its way out of my ass. I know that I am desperate to find any possible location, other than my Dockers and my car, to relieve myself of this monster. The sweat is dripping from my forehead as if I was on the twentieth mile of a marathon. I have one hand clenched to my steering wheel, knuckles white, and the other on to my driver side door, holding on like a child in a rollercoaster waiting for the next big dip in the ride. The bastard in my belly feeling no mercy for me, he smells victory. I am smelling defeat. The sharting has begun.
I pull off I-96, on Chicago Road, not a section of Detroit I feel comfortable in, especially on this day, as I am about to shit my pants. I arrive at a McDonalds in a hopeless state of mind; it appears to be a matter of seconds before I birth this monster. I wobble, run, and then decide I might be better off walking from the parking lot into the establishment. Straight to men’s room, I pass a young woman who is in her attractive McDonald’s uniform watching a television of all things. I give her a nod, like I am a regular at the place. My confidence is on the rise as I am entering the restroom and unbuckling my belt and pants at the same time. Upon entry I find pure horror, two kids getting dressed for their afternoon shift on the fryers, one of course in the only stall. For a brief second, I think a may have no choice but to drop and lay this thing in one of the two sinks available, that makes perfect sense on this day. At least I will be able to wash my hands after cleaning the shit off my ass and legs. In a panic, I quickly dart out of the bathroom holding up my pants, sweating and trembling like a 28 year old man who is about to shit his pants should. What do I do? I am being watched closely by the young lady watching television on her break. She is my only hope. I approach her; she senses immediately that I need help. Without hesitation or thought, I explain how I am diabetic and in desperate need of insulin shot. I need a restroom before I fall over and die. Like a saint she walks over to the women’s restroom and peeks inside, then looks at me and promises she will not let anyone inside. Ten minutes later I exit the feeling like a champion. I am without my underwear, the charting left a nice stain, but I still have my pride. I walk past the woman who is standing guard at the door, like I am royalty and give her a nod and say thank you. All she does is smile. The woman is a SAINT, and probably not the one who is responsible for cleaning the restrooms.