Blowout

So, Canada.

I remember there we were driving across the great province of Ontario in a late-model 740 with two babies strapped into carseats in the back. I recall we actually had mentioned something about how idyllic our life had become, as though we were living a dream.

We'd just stopped for a bite to eat at an excellent roadside diner -- not one of those American Interstate places, but a real off-the-beaten-path roadhouse built of wood and bone.

It proved an excellent choice. We were the only diners there and had the place to ourselves. We fed the boys and had no problems. We were feeling really good about ourselves.

Note to young and future parents: if you sense that you are feeling good about yourselves, it is a sign that the worst wrath nature can offer is about to be shed upon you.

We leave the diner and strap everyone in the car. I hadn't even left the parking lot. And then, that sound.

It must be sort of like what a mudslide sounds like, though I've never had the pleasure of encountering one of those.

Within seconds, the entire interior of the 740 smelled of potent, noxious, mind-altering, fuming fecal matter.

Both boys had spontaneously combusted. Poop was everywhere. All over them. All over the carseats. I opened the door and half of the great province of Ontario stopped in their tracks, lifted their keen Canadian noses to the sky, and asked, "What's that smell?"

It was the greatest double twin blowout ever witnessed. It was so fierce, the restaurant offered us tablecloths (not napkins) to clean it up.