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By Paul Stelzer

The summer of ‘82. It was going to be the best vacation ever! I was 10 years old. After the hard knocks and heartbreak of fourth grade, I needed a vacation. My big sister and best friend, Cathy, is five years older than I am. She had just finished ninth grade, her first year of high school. Cathy needed a vacation. Best. Vacation. Ever. Or so we thought.

At age 10, I was already an American history buff. Cathy and I had never seen the Atlantic Ocean. And more than any other TV show, Cathy and I loved to watch Happy Days. When Mom and Dad told my big brother Jay, Cathy and me, that we were going to Washington, D.C., AND Myrtle Beach, Cathy and I knew that “happy days” were here again!

But first, a few ground rules for the 468-mile road trip from Perrysburg, Ohio, to Washington. My father, former Marine Sgt. Bob Stelzer, didn’t like foul-mouthed children. In my family, you didn’t “fart.” You “tooted.” And you didn’t “poop.” You went “big potty.” That year, Prince’s hit song “1999” was in heavy rotation on the radio. What Cathy and I didn’t know, what we couldn’t possibly imagine as we left Ohio, is that we were about to “POTTY” like it was 1999!

We piled into Sgt. Bob’s brand new, metallic blue Buick LeSabre. First stop: D.C. Two days in our nation’s capital included all the big stuff you’d find on any savvy tourist’s checklist — a trip to the top of the Washington Monument, a bus tour past The White House and the Capitol Building, a walk up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. But the highlight for Cathy and me came on our final day in Washington, at The Smithsonian Museum of American History.

As we walked through an exhibit dedicated to movies and television, Cathy and I spotted something we had seen a thousand times on TV, but never in person — the black leather jacket of Arthur Fonzarelli. THE FONZ! Archie Bunker’s chair was right next to Fonzie’s jacket. But Cathy and I didn’t really care much about the chair because we didn’t watch All in the Family. But the Fonz’s black leather jacket?!? Ayyyyyyy! Now, THAT was cool! Henry Winkler, the actor who played The Fonz, is a man of small stature. Cathy and I were surprised by how tiny the leather jacket was. But the thrills we felt were bigger than the gigantic Star-Spangled Banner that hung right around the corner from Fonzie’s jacket. Little did I know, I was about to “SIT ON IT!” Hard. For the next eight hours.

Was it the undercooked bratwurst I had scarfed down for lunch at the hot dog stand near the Air and Space Museum? Or something I had for breakfast at the Holiday Inn buffet in College Park, Maryland? We may never know the culprit. But a relentless force that was vicious, vile and vindictive was plotting an uprising deep inside my 10-year-old belly. The tumult in my tummy made itself known as soon as we hopped into the LeSabre. Next stop: Myrtle Beach.

As the Washington Monument faded away in Sgt. Bob’s rearview mirror, my 10-year-old fanny rumbled like the first shots fired upon Fort Sumter at the start of the American Civil War. Over the next eight hours, my tiny heinie wreaked havoc on toilets in rest stops, gas stations and fast-food burger joints, all along I-95. From Richmond, Virginia, to Fayetteville, North Carolina, it was scorched-bottom warfare.

All along the way, my sweet sister Cathy comforted me. The same sweet sister who changed my diapers when I was a baby. Cathy and my beautiful mother, Marilyn, retrieved my “marbles” from the floor when a diaper change went awry. So, it was fitting that Mom and Cathy comforted me in the back seat of the Buick LeSabre. I sat in the middle, between Cathy and Mom, while Sgt. Bob and big brother Jay — perched in the front seat — focused on making up the time we lost due to my frequent bathroom stops.

As we crossed the border from North Carolina to South Carolina, the relentless rebel force inside my stomach made one final charge and prepared to demand my surrender. I couldn’t “hold them back” any longer. I was not a melodramatic child. But when Sgt. Bob told me he didn’t want to make any more stops for me to go “big potty,” I made my most impassioned plea: “For the love of God, PLEASE stop this car!”

My father, Sgt. Bob Stelzer, replied, “Squeeze your cheeks. Anyone can squeeze their cheeks!” Well, as God is my witness, my cheeks were getting numb and turning a shade of purplish-red from my intense squeezing. In fact, Mom and Cathy each pressed two fingers on the outside of my shorts, on the sides of my cheeks to assist with the squeezing.

The moment of truth arrived when a blast of steamy, pungent air fired from my tired tush. THE TOOT THAT STOPPED TIME. Shocked by the sound of my titanic toot, my mother screamed, “Oh my God! He’s goin’ all over the place!” In fact, I was NOT going all over the place. I had maintained “sphincter integrity.” And a clean pair of shorts. But the mere thought of that kind of mess in the back seat of Sgt. Bob’s shiny, new Buick LeSabre made my stubborn Marine father reconsider his earlier refusal to stop.

Somewhere in rural South Carolina, the old Marine pulled over and parked his prized Buick. And there, in the grass on the side of a country road 30 miles from Myrtle Beach, I celebrated the “biggest potty” the South had ever seen. When the damage was done, I used Kleenex to freshen my frazzled fanny. I got back in the car. There, in the back seat of Sgt. Bob’s prized possession, my sister Cathy put her arm around me and comforted me with the words, “Way to go, Potsie. You stayed cool. Just like The Fonz. Ayyyyyyy!”

— Paul Stelzer

Paul Stelzer grew up in Dayton, Ohio, and graduated from the University of Notre Dame. Paul tried stand-up comedy for the very first time at the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop in 2010. He later co-founded The Hashtag Comedy Company in Columbus, where he emcees and performs in improv comedy shows, teaches improv classes and leads improv-based corporate workshops.