Here's a "This ain't no shit" clenched cheek story for you. CVN-68, somewhere in the Indian Ocean, 1980 time frame. During the walk-around I notice some rumbling coming from my lower intestinal track. I decide that there is not enough time to go back below, strip off my flight gear, relieve the pressure, and make it back for the launch, so I press on, after noting a minor drop in the pressure emanating from down below. I climb into my Great American War Machine A-7, get started and taxi aft for the launch when the second guessing begins. Was this a mistake? As the cat fired, I realized that, indeed, I had made a huge tactical error. Have you ever tried flying, trying to cross your legs with a stick between them, to try to increase the clenching power of your sphincter muscle? It was one hour and 45 minutes of pure agony. But I thought I'd succeeded until the trap....when the pressure finally exceeded the limits of my internal pressure relief valve. After getting parked and chained, the plane captain started customarily climbing the ladder to assist me in getting unstrapped. I waved him off and asked him to just get far away. I climbed out and brought the seat pad with me and threw it over the side, luckily being parked right next to the edge. I quickly proceeded straight to the nearest shower, climbed in after shedding my torso harness, did my best at cleaning up my flight gear, and proceeded straight to my rack, as I was not feeling well at all. I was scheduled for another brief an hour later but did cancel out of that one as things were still not settled down. By the time I made it to the ready room later that evening, my new call sign was already on the Greeny Board . . . . Bedpan.