When I was around 3 or 4 (potty training years), we were on a road trip with the family. I found the sudden urge to use the bathroom. In my cutest voice, I said “I gotta go poo-poo!” Dad, being a typical Dad, said to hold it. My next comment was “too late!” The back seat of his 1970 Dodge Challenger regretted the decision not to pull over. It’s not as funny as unless you hear the voice inflection they said I made.

Another time we were heading home and I had to pee. Dad gave me a 7 oz. Miller High Life bottle to use as a urinal. (In the 70s, it was not unusual to drink and drive.) Well, it wasn’t quite large enough. Needless to say, that same poor car took the brunt of the accident. I told Dad he needed to drink bigger beers. (Seriously, who drinks pony bottles anyway, even if it was the champagne of beers.)