It's not our fault their stalls are roomier and have grips

Cedar Point, as you may know, is the most awesome place on earth. Currently ranked the number 2 amusement park in the world (thanks to the accursed Japanese taking over the top spot), and a summer day there generally guarantees a solid 10 hours of merriment. That is unless, you’re me, and you foolishly got drunk the night before and consumed a large batch of extremely spicy wings at 2 o'clock that morning.

It was the year the Millennium Force opened. No ordinary rollercoaster, the Millennium Force boasts top speeds of 93mph from a staggering height of 310 feet. Being its first year, the lines were excruciatingly long; so numerous were the gathering hoards that there was even a line to get tickets that told you when to get in line.

My girlfriend, a handful of compatriots and I had been planning this trip for some time, and at 11am (somewhere between the ticket line and the ticket ticket line) the day's outlook was cheery to say the least. Then it struck. Actually, they all struck. Every single spicy wing I'd drunkenly consumed the night before began a swift march through my intestine, setting fire to things on the way. I incoherently mumbled something about my condition, and sprinted towards the nearest bathroom, which just happened to be in one of those old-timey saloon theme bars that no one goes to because why would you? This is CEDAR POINT. There are motherfucking ROLLERCOASTERS here. Anyway, I burst through the door, and saw that the only stall available was for handicapped people. This was of little consequence to me; I charged in and barely got my pants down before my sphincter let forth an unholy canon of semi-digested wings into the unassuming bowl below. It was fortunate for me that I had come upon a handicapped stall; the grips adjacent to the toilet prevented me from being propelled heavenward by the geyser erupting from below. I cried out in agony, gripping with all my might. Quickly crossing the pain threshold, I achieved a zen-like state, almost as though I were floating above the bathroom, watching a grenade go off in someone else's colon. And when the nightmare was finally over, I emerged a tired and beaten man. The bathroom was, not surprisingly, devoid of life.

Believe it or not, this lone event was not my most major concern; during my out of body experience, I concluded that if my delicate digestive state could not cope with idly standing in line, there was NO WAY I would make it through the physical trauma of the Millennium Force's first hill without shitting all over the goddamn place. As my inescapable fate gradually became clear, I wept, and actually prayed; something I have not done since, and had not done prior, save for an elementary school playground altercation with a bully.

Perhaps even worse than the prospect of soiling my trousers at 93mph was the knowledge that I would never, EVER, be able to live it down. I would be known as the "guy who shit himself on the Millennium Force" evermore, and any argument I made on any subject, no matter how compelling, could easily be countered by reminding me of this.

ME: Well, I think that you’re wrong about President Bush’s wild fiscal spending habits not having an effect on the national debt and the future ownership of this country’s assets.
DETRACTOR: Oh yeah? Well at least I didn’t crap my pants on a rollercoaster! Haha!
(wins argument, high-fives everyone)

To be continued…

Wondering what exactly the point of this story was? Why, the importance of handicapped bathrooms of course! Join us next week for the exciting conclusion of "It's not our fault their stalls are roomier and have grips"!