One morning, a friend of mine took her two boys (let's call them Frick and Frack ... names have been changed to protect the innocent) to the coffee shop with her. It so happened that Frick was potty training at the time.
Shortly after arriving, he approached his mom and told her that he had had an accident. More specifically, that he had dropped a deuce. He didn't exactly put it that way, but it works well for the purpose of this story. She quickly hustled the kids to the bathroom, pulled off her son's pants, and was immediately puzzled. There was nothing there.
It should also be mentioned that, because of the heavy toll on underwear taken by the potty training, my friend had thrown pants on the kid that morning without anything underneath. Was this a bit cavalier, desperate, or just outrageously hopeful? These are the kinds of decisions you make more effectively after coffee.
Anyway, circumstances had combined to beg the question that she then whispered in horror:
"Frick, where's the poop?"
Did she dare to dream that, from this point onward, it would simply evaporate? His reply snapped her back to reality.
"It fell out in the coffee shop."
So she did what any good mother would do, and went looking for it. Midway into her surreptitious investigation, she spied a lonely turd on the floor. And to make matters worse, it already had a footprint in it.
Now, at this point, you're probably thinking, how can this situation take yet another embarrassing turn? I'll leave you with one last sentence: The footprint belonged to Frack.