“There are worse things than this,” said Tyler, ever the optimist, even as they found themselves in what might well have been the one situation where that statement didn't hold true.
“Like what?” shot Sheila, intent on calling him out, holding him accountable for the words coming out of his mouth. He'd been getting away with his melodramatic nonsense for too long, it was time for that to stop.
“I can't think of anything off the top of my head,” he replied, more concerned with the situation at hand—which was quite bad, indeed—than with finding examples that would satisfy her curious fixation on evidence to support every assertion, regardless of any mitigating circumstances, such as being stuck in a position that may not have been the worst imaginable technically speaking but was still neither the time nor place for debate of this nature.
“Of course you can't, because you're full of shit.” She delighted in the error of his ways, of his words, of everything about him, even as her being right meant that there were not, in fact, worse things than this and they were therefore, to put it crudely but accurately, screwed in a big way.
“If we're going to be literal,” he said, “I'm not full of shit. I took care of business a while ago. So while the situation may be dire, at least I don't have to use the facilities. Not that there are any here anyway.”
They both seemed surprised at the scatological direction their conversation had turned. Perhaps in times of extreme stress one's thoughts naturally turn to bodily functions. Still, this was bad. Even she had to concede this might be the worst thing, which would negate her objection to his original assertion.
There was no escape.