You people with your fancy indoor plumbing and private bathrooms have no idea what we Kings of the Road go through.

This morning, bleary-eyed and drowsy, maybe even a little hungover, I stumbled from the EM-50 Phantom Rambler and shuffled into the Wal-Mart for my morning constitutional.

It was early. I had the room to myself. Smelled a little funny. Oh well.

I sat perched on the throne, nodding off, hoping I could take advantage of this opportunity when someone else entered the men’s room.

I heard a little kid jabbering on nonstop, the way they do.

The kid was going a mile a minute. His parent was assisting him in his endeavor and told him, in Spanish-accented English, to hurry.

I shook my head. His stupid ass mother had brought him into the goddamn men’s room. Some people have no sense of decorum, I swear.

Still undeterred  (haha…un de-turd…haha…nevermind) another guy entered and sat in the stall next to mine. In my less than alert state, I remember noting that he had really small feet.

In no hurry…yet, I just lolled there, enjoying the free warmth.

The guy next to me gave sharp little cough.

My head snapped up, my eyes popped open and I pricked up my ears. That sounded like a woman’s cough.

As I was simultaneously wondering if it is racist to say you can tell the sex of a person by their cough and what the hell this little box was that was mounted on the wall, a thought occurred to me.

(Editor’s note: We were gonna say sexist instead of racist, but sexist and sex in the same sentence hits the ear funny. We went with racist. You get the idea.)

Is there any chance I bumbled into the cootie-filled ladies room?

Then another thought…why is it “ladies room” instead of “ladies’ room”? I mean, we say “Men’s room”, right? It’s not “Men room” or even, “man’s room”. Weird. I know.

Fully awake, I was now trying to remember if I had passed any urinals when I entered. Cripes!  I couldn’t recall.

On the verge of abject panic, I sought council from my life partner, Trixie. She’ll know what to do! (text related)

The restrooms open out to the registers…good thing they are never staffed (zing!).

I raced out of there, like a posse was on my tail, it was indeed, time to get the Hell out of Dodge….just like I said I wanted. I was wrong.

Without a plan, I jumped onto the nearest open road and made a run for the border.

Once my heartbeat slowed to an easy staccato,  I got another (albeit different kind of) thrill.  On the outskirts of Dodge City I stood witness as a tumbleweed broke loose and, well, tumbled across the road in front of me!

Flouting the local ordinances, I snatched up my phone to call Trixie and tell her about it. I mean, what are the odds?! A tumbleweed! In Dodge City! That is so western!

She didn’t answer. Gift wrapping her office, I think. But, just then, holy shit! Another! Soon…another.  It got so I had to swerve to avoid the constant barrage.

It was like playing a real-life version of Asteroids.

I wasn’t always successful. I hit one square with the grill of the Rambler. The tumbleweed exploded into confetti.

Eventually, the road took me to Garden City, Kansas – home of the world’s largest, outdoor, municipal, concrete swimming pool. That is way too many modifiers.

I went looking for a Bison refuge that is supposed to be here but got driven back by the smell. I passed a pasture.  My wild guess would be…oh, 50,000 head of cattle jammed in pretty tight. And, that’s no bull.

Don’t think I didn’t notice how she laughed at my predicament. Imma get her for that.