Albert Lewis (C. S. Lewis' father) "was a master of  the anecdote, a fund of improbable stories, many of which for him epitomized the tragicomedy of what it meant to be Irish. One of the more bizarre  'wheezes'  (as he habitually termed these stories and observations) concerned an occasion when he was travelling in an old-fashioned train of the kind which had no corridor, so that the passengers were imprisoned in their compartments for as long as the train was moving.  

He was not alone in the compartment.  He found himself opposite one other character, a respectable-looking farmer in a tweed suit whose agitated manner was to be explained by the demands of nature.  

When the train had rattled on for a further few miles, and showed no signs of stopping at a station where a lavatory might have been available, the gentleman pulled down his trousers, squatted on the floor of the railway carriage and defecated.  

When this operation was complete, and the gentleman, fully clothed, was once more seated opposite Albert Lewis, the smell in the compartment was so powerful as to be almost nauseating,  To vary, if not to drown the odour, Albert Lewis got a pipe from his pocket and began to light it. But at that point the stranger opposite, who had not spoken one word during the entire journey, leaned forward and censoriously tapped a sign on the window which read NO SMOKING. "

Why I don’t have to use airplane bathrooms . . . 

  My wife hates to fly and disdains using airplane bathrooms even more. I was sitting window on a cross-country flight, my wife was middle, and a large sleeping gentleman was in the aisle seat.  

About an hour into the flight, my wife resisted her urge to use the facilities to avoid waking the sleeping guy.  Instead, she grumbled on about her frequent need to ‘do number two’ during flights and my lack of such need.  After eating our airline lunch, the man awakened and my wife slipped by him to do her duty. 

While she was gone, I noticed that dessert was a Baby Ruth candy bar, a delectable little log of chocolate.  I anticipated her coming question, unwrapped the bar, and hid it in the palm of my hand.  As expected, my wife returned relieved but still mystified by my airborn bowel control. "Why is it that you never have to use airplane bathrooms?" she blurted.  My answer rolled lazily toward my unfurled fingers; the Baby Ruth spoke for itself.