Dear Michelle,

It's been three long years since I saw your breakfast and lunch come together in an epic supernova not achieved since God first breathed life into Adam. When I arrived on the bus after purchasing my two Tootsie Pops from Elmer and taking my usual 2:58 piss in the second urinal from the left, you were a shade of green usually approached only by Evergreen trees. I apologize for not taking action and having you carted off to the nurse, but I had just started dating my girlfriend, Kristin, and I was especially eager to tell her that they ran out of orange flavor. So our ride began, inconspicuously enough.

Once we'd past the KFC, which I often referred to as ShitFC (I was not terribly clever in 10th grade), I began to hear rumbles and grumbles similar to the Nazi's chasing Steve McQueen in The Great Escape. I turned around to see the disturbance and you were clutching the sides of the seats like Barry Bonds clutches his girlfriends' necks. Realizing the shit that was about to go down, I immediately grabbed the girlfriend and dove ahead like, well, like we were about to get nailed with puke.

I'd like to note the chunkiness and high viscosity of this particular sample. Upon splashing the floor, it barely moved, staying put for good. I felt pity like you like I have felt for few people; not since I shit my pants in my freshman English class have I felt such shame (Editor's note: Pants shitting did not actually happen).

Soon you were off the bus, but there were no words of mocking. No one made fun, and no one laughed. There was a moment of silence, and it was understood that we were never to speak of that event again. But I have broken the silence to ask you one thing: How ya feelin'?

Concerned,

Pat Holohan