Oh God,
I hate it when I sit down for a casual poop and something happens part-way through, like the phone ringing or a knock at the door and I want to get up and tend to it, but my bowels decide that this is the moment within which to begin working on the remains of the steak burrito I ate the night before and tells me, under no certain terms, that it's coming and I cannot stop it, but, like a wet St. Bernard coming in through the cat door, it's gonna take a solid 5 minutes to squeeze and shift into the right shape to pass completely, leaving me to either abandon the idea, or bear down with all my might and either sound like I'm trying to pry my hand off a hot plate on the phone or appear to be some sort of bright red zombie when I answer the door.
I need some Metamucil, damn it.