Ever heard of a “roadshow”? What about a “shitshow”? Sometimes they go hand in hand.

Before a company goes public, the big dogs believe it’s important to spoil their investment bankers with a multi-city tour in support of their upcoming Initial Public Offering (IPO) – this is a roadshow, and it requires a private jet.

Celebrity Net Worth fills us in:

During a roadshow, it’s not unusual to visit two or three cities in a single day so work starts at the crack of dawn. That doesn’t mean the group goes to bed early. Every night, the bankers treat their clients to a wild night out in whatever town they are in, complete with thousand dollar dinners and endless alcohol.

No matter how hard the group parties the night before, the private jet will lift them off to their next destination very early the next morning.

If you know what it’s like to be hungover on a plane, I’m sorry. Especially after running to make your flight while simultaneously stuffing your face with whatever you can find – forgetting that what goes in must go out.

What’s next? Chill on the plane and sleep away the babalas? Quite the opposite.

This is the story about a very unlucky investment banker who asked to remain anonymous. I would, too.

Let’s see it from the man who wrote it:

Just over halfway through the flight, all the coffee in my stomach feels like it’s percolating its way down into my lower intestine. I hunker down and try and focus on other things. What feels like an hour, but probably isn’t more than twenty minutes, passes. We then enter what turns out to be pretty violent turbulence. With each bounce, I have to fight my body, trying not to shit my pants. “Thirty minutes to landing, maybe forty five” I try and tell myself, each jostle a gamble I can’t afford to lose. I signal to [the flight attendant] and she heads toward me.

“Excuse me, where is the bathroom, because I don’t see a door?” I ask while still devoting considerable energy to fighting off what starts to feel like someone shook a seltzer  bottle and shoved it up my ass. She looks at me, bemused, and says, “Well, we don’t really have one per se [sic].” She continues, “Technically, we have one, but it’s really just for emergencies. Don’t worry, we’re landing shortly anyway.”

“I’m pretty sure this qualifies as an emergency,” I manage to mutter through my grimace. I can see the fear in her face as she points nervously to the back seat. The turbulence outside is matched only by the cyclone that is ravaging my bowels. She points to the back of the plane and says, “There. The toilet is there.” For a brief instant, relief passes over my face. She continues, “If you pull away the leather cushion from that seat, it’s under there. There’s a small privacy screen that pulls up around it, but that’s it.”

“How could they leave it there?” you’re thinking. Well, I need the loo to be honest. What a man for sending it in, though.

Here‘s the full story. Don’t slip a fart while you laugh.

Check out @GSElevator for less shitty stories.

Thanks, Evan.

[source:celebritynetworth]