A guy walks in to Burrito Loco and orders himself a buffalo chicken burrito with extra buffalo sauce. He does this knowing that most spicy foods, like the buffalo sauce, upset his stomach so much that, to avoid any accidents, he might be better off eating them in the bathroom where he would be in close proximity to a toilet. With that said, he decides to order the sauce anyway because it tastes so good.
Like clockwork, five minutes after devouring the burrito his stomach respectfully sends him a half dozen warning shots, reminding him that, if a bathroom is not found immediately, his ass will explode in one big, mean cloud of shit. Luckily, the bathroom is nearby.
He heads to the counter where he sees the theft-proof bathroom key attached to a large metal spoon. Minutes later he's finishing up business, proud of the work he's accomplished, and begins closing up shop. As he's pulling up his underwear, though, he experiences a minor aftershock that, on the Richter Scale, would measure so low that sounding an alarm would be akin to crying wolf. He decides that it's flatulence and he lets it pass.
It quickly becomes apparent that there are serious communication issues between his stomach and him. So, while riding home in his friend's car, sitting cautiously on his thigh in the passenger seat with toilet paper stuffed tightly between his ass cheeks while recounting the mess to the co-owner of his blog by cell phone hoping he'll approve it for publication (Guy: "This is blog worthy. Is this blog worthy?" Co-Owner: "As long as you post it under your name it's fucking great." Guy: "Thank god."), he remembers a poem he once read that was written in permanent marker on a stall door in a public restroom:
Here I sit,
broken hearted;
I had to shit,
but only farted.
An hour later,
I took a chance
and tried to fart,
but shit my pants.
